Yuanfen
by Etimire T
Summary: They say, in the beginning, humans had two hearts and two souls. But now they are separated. Unbalanced. On the night of the everyone's 21st birthday, the name of their second soul, their counterbalance, is revealed in the Yuanfen; a breathless dream. Who dares to search? Surely not Sherlock Holmes. NO SLASH
1. Chapter 1

**Yuán** **fèn:** (yuu-on-fehn) n _._

 _Fate or chance that brings people together.  
Predestined affinity or relationship, destiny._

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

There was an old legend that spoke of the beginning. At that time, human beings had two hearts and two souls, each completely opposite and exactly balancing out the other. For many years, the world was at peace.

There was a young wizard whose left heart had always been weak. On his twenty-first year, it sputtered and finally fell silent. The second soul fled into the abyss. Although he survived the half-death, he became violent, unbalanced and hateful. In the end, the wizard, mad with grief and desperate that the people around him understood why, devised a spell to separate each human into two separate people who would be born at the same moment anywhere on Earth. Each one with one of their hearts; two people completely opposite and constantly searching for the other. Now they would know loss.

The spell went out, and when everyone woke up the next morning, their other half was gone. They were left with nothing but an eternal longing for their counterbalance. The world became chaotic just like the man. People went insane without their second soul. Violence reigned and no one knew how to fix the problem.

But then a wise wizard devised a counterspell. It would not reverse the dark wizard's work but it would lessen the impact. On the twenty-first birthday, the same day the dark wizard's heart died, of every man and woman, the first name of their counterbalance would be revealed to them in a dream. It wasn't a perfect fix, and the wise wizard admitted it. But now there was a small chance that some people would find their opposites once more.

The spell was dubbed _Yuanfen._

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

Sherlock decided a very long time ago that he would ignore the _Yuanfen._ He didn't believe the story. It was ridiculous. Two hearts, as if. He was a scientist.

Mass hallucination was more likely. Or a conspiracy. A self-fulfilling prophecy. Something.

On his twenty-first birthday, when he learned the name of the man or woman he was bound with; his opposite; his best friend or ultimate enemy, Sherlock swore never to search; never think about him or her. It was pointless and irrational and probably not even real. He did not have need of friends. He had his work. He had his intellect. That was all he needed.

Most people waited eagerly for the night that they would turn twenty-one. Sherlock did not. They'd fall asleep after a nervous evening, and their opposite's name was revealed in a breathlessly vivid dream. Some people spent their entire lives in wonder over this dream, constantly searching for their counterbalance. In some, the connection was so strong that as time went on, they swore they could feel what their opposite felt from anywhere the globe.

How ridiculous.

Sherlock was determined that it would have no impact on him at all. The _Yuanfen_ would not control him[ if he dreamed it at all.] He didn't deal with sentiment. No.

Dealing with murder was much easier.

But…

He hadn't expected the dream to be like this.

Sherlock's was decidedly bored on his twenty-first birthday. Mother insisted on a small party which ended up being quite large and showy, and Sherlock snuck out the back as soon as he could. He walked home with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Breath hanging in the air, he fumbled with the key lock and finally managed to let himself inside of his flat. Mrs. Hudson, his landlady, was gone on vacation, and Sherlock was glad of it. He didn't think he could handle her chattering right now.

Alright. Maybe he was a bit more nervous than he planned to be. _It's not going to happen. It's not real._ Wrinkling his nose at his own weakness, Sherlock hung up his coat, stomped up the stairs, and dropped onto his couch with pursed lips. His fingers twitched for a cigarette. He was _not_ worried.

Nor was he even curious.

" _Sentiment_." With a yawn, Sherlock stood to work on an experiment currently habitating his microwave but fell backward onto the couch quite unexpectedly. He frowned, suddenly drowsy. Was this supposed to happen?

He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Ah," he murmured, "Twelve o'clock." Vaguely, he remembered someone mentioning forced sleepiness past twelve on the twenty-first birthday but he couldn't quite remember. Was that real, then? Yawning hugely, Sherlock let his eyes flutter closed. The hand in the microwave needed a few more hours to pickle anyhow.

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

It had been weeks since John last consciously registered the date. Everything was a blur of injuries and medicine and war and fire and achingly stressful nights as they waited for all hell to break loose. As a medical assistant, John was kept busy constantly.

So it was no wonder he was surprised the night of his twenty-first birthday arrived. He was relieved from duty and went to bed utterly exhausted. John rarely remembered his dreams, and when he did, they were vague and disjointed.

The _Yuanfen_ was neither.

It started out dark. He was looking down at himself sleeping in a one man tent, but then the world blurred. He caught glimpses of tangled strings of light, and it was achingly beautiful as he sped through the air. He was aware of a sickening sense of movement, and he flew across the sky. Farther and farther away until he stopped in a city.

Which city? No idea.

There was a blue door, and he rushed through it without regard to physics. Up some stairs and then he was in a flat. He caught a glimpse of a dark form, sleeping on a couch.

 _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock_

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

Across the globe, at exactly the same instant, Sherlock Holmes jumped awake.

It was morning, and his mouth tasted metallic.

Groaning, he sat up creakily and ground the bases of his palms onto his eyes. That was… interesting.

Suddenly, he flinched as reality bled into his skull. His hands fell from his eyes.

He'd dreamed it.

The _Yuanfen._ It was real.

Sherlock scowled at the ground. Had he really believed it wasn't? If the entire world spoke of the same event, had it been illogical of him to insist that it was fake?

But perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. He expected it, so it came.

It sure hadn't felt like a dream.

Sherlock shook the thought away, and the vision crept up behind him instead, filling his attention.

It had started out slow and build up momentum until he hurtled across the sky and shot into a dark green tent. He caught a flash of blonde and then the name whispered softly around him over and over again. _John_.

That was it.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Rather anticlimactic," he muttered.

* * *

 ** _HELLO GUYS! So, I've been cooking this one for a few months. Almost finished with it, so updates should be pretty fast. This was one of those things that was_** ** _going to be ten pages at the most... but... it just sort of... took me hostage?_**

 ** _To be clear (Because I always appreciate a warning when I'm reading FF) This is a p_ _latonic John and Sherlock story, not a soul mate ship-thing. Never really been a fan of Johnlock (shoot me if you must. I'll remember to fall backward_ _.) So. Yeah. Leave a REVIEW, please? It makes life a bit brighter :) Continue being awesome people, Season 4 is on its way!_**


	2. Chapter 2

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

"What's with you, Watson? You look spooked."

John carefully rolled up his bed and glanced at his acquaintance Reggie Williams leaning into the tent. His shock of red hair was unsuccessfully tamed. John shrugged. "I… didn't realize it was my birthday yesterday." A rueful chuckle escaped him. "I'm twenty-one."

The man's eyes widened, and then he stepped completely into the tent. Reggie was never one for personal space. Then again, he was American. He peered down at John, his interest obvious. "So what's their name?"

"Sherlock." John snorted. "I'm never going to find him. Sounds rare."

Reggie hummed thoughtfully. "Who in their right mind would name their kid _Sherlock?_ "

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

"Lestrade," Sherlock hissed. He bent over the corpse of a recently deceased maid. "If you don't stop staring and ask me already, I won't give you the antidote for the poison in your coffee."

Lestrade stopped mid-sip. He coughed. "What?"

"Never mind." Sherlock squinted down at the floor. His voice drawled, bored. "It's hardly potent. You'll be fine, probably. Tell me if your skin turns blue, though. Sometimes that happens. It's great for making someone look like a corpse..."

Lestrade just stared at him. He carefully handed his coffee into the waiting hands of someone else. Shaking his head, Lestrade spoke. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear any of that." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "You're twenty-one."

"Wonderfully observant of you."

"... Did you see the _Yuanfan_?"

Sighing, Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his phone into his pocket. "Everyone sees the _Yuanfan,_ Lestrade. Of course, I did. I was under the impression that it wasn't something one talks about..." And it wasn't. No "polite." Sherlock bent down again. The body had red paint under her fingernails. Interesting.

Lestrade just rolled his eyes. "Don't be stubborn, Sherlock." There was a pause with nothing but their shuffling clothes. And then: " ...Well?"

"Well, _what_?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you? What's the name?"

For a moment, Sherlock closed his eyes. Oh, why did it matter? He'd never move on if people continued to mention it. It was a social no-no to talk about the _Yuanfen_ with strangers but apparently "friends" could ignore that. Irritating.

Standing quickly, Sherlock pulled his coat tightly around himself. "She liked dogs, was a caffeine addict and was murdered by her second cousin." With a nod, he brushed past Lestrade and opened the door. A breath of fresh air soothed him. "Oh, and… his name is John."

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

Sherlock wasn't looking for him.

Of course not.

He slammed the laptop shut and rubbed his eyes. He hadn't expected that forgetting the dream would be so difficult. It had been two weeks, and the _Yuanfen_ hung in his mind like a ghost. No matter how many times he deleted it, it crept into his thoughts again.

Who was John? What did he look like? Why were they connected?

No. Shaking his head, Sherlock jumped up and padded to the kitchen. Those eyes were definitely dyed blue by this point. Now, to add a dose of carbon monoxide…

But he couldn't concentrate. Every time he moved to make a note, he found himself setting down the pencil and starting at nothing in particular. Taking a sip of old mint tea, Sherlock leaned back against the kitchen counter and let his mind run through possibilities. What would it be like to ever meet him? Would he know John at sight?

Sentiment was so... Ugh.

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

"John! Pay attention, man!"

John jumped. "Sorry, sir. Mint was it?"

The doctor gave him a scathing look. He had his hand on a minorly injured soldier. "What are you talking about? Fresh bandages and hot water."

Blinking, John nodded and moved quickly to grab the supplies. What did he say mint for? This wasn't the nineteenth century, for heaven's sake.

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

Sherlock was sitting in Mycroft's office hijacking government files when he caught his hand shaking on the mouse. Cocking his head, he lifted his hand and clenched a fist. His stomach twisted nervously when he realized he couldn't stop his fingers from shaking.

 _A tremor? Often obtained after trauma. PTSD, maybe?_

But he wasn't traumatized so what on Earth was this? He hardly noticed the armed guard that burst into the room, closely followed by his brother.

Mycroft took one look at Sherlock and rolled his eyes. "If you want information, Sherlock, you just have to ask. There is some very... sensitive items saved on that computer."

"Hmm?" Sherlock placed the shaking hand in his lap and raised an eyebrow. He noted the guard and finally let his gaze crawl to Mycroft. He shrugged and leaned back casually in Mycroft's chair to disguise his ill ease. "Yes. Well, I… didn't want to."

Mycroft blinked and seemed to see something his Sherlock's face that Sherlock rather wished he didn't. After a moment, he waved a dismissive hand at the guard. The guard shut the door behind him, and Mycroft continued staring at his younger brother. "What is this about? You've been acting… strangely."

Sherlock snorted. "It's for a case."

"Alright. Why are you _really_ looking through my computer?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock powered down the device and spun idly in his chair. "Why do you always assume I'm lying?"

"It saves time. What are you doing, Sherlock? You spent far more time solving this last crime than necessary, and you took your own laptop apart. Are you avoiding something?"

Sherlock scowled. "I'm not _avoiding_ anything. As you can see, I have utilized your brilliant computer." He gestured at it.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"When?"

Hissing, Sherlock jumped to his feet and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He moved to the door and then paused before the polished wood. His brother wouldn't relent unless he gave something up. Childlike irritation colored his words. "Do you know how many people are named _John_ , Myc? It's utterly ridiculous. The universe is trying to torture me."

Behind him, Sherlock felt Mycroft still. He could practically hear the gears turning in his brother's mind. "I thought you were intent on forgetting the _Yuanfen_?" He murmured softly. There was a tinge of something in there. Guilt? Surely not.

Not looking at him, Sherlock dropped his head. "I am. I just can't seem to… I don't know."

"Are you looking for him?"

"No."

For a long time, Mycroft was silent. Sherlock heard his brother sit heavily in his desk chair. "More than 6 million," Mycroft supplied eventually.

Cocking his head, Sherlock turned halfway. "What?"

"There are more than 6 million people named 'John'."

Oh. Sherlock nodded. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock grasped the door handle and sighed. Mycroft must have researched once he found out about Sherlock's counterbalance. That small bit of care made Sherlock consider his brother more carefully. Was that _concern_ he'd displayed? Of course not.

"See?" Sherlock said suddenly. "There wouldn't be any point in looking even if I was, _which I'm not_." Sherlock opened the door and shut it as quick as he could without slamming it.

He wasn't looking.

He wasn't. Running a hand through his hair once more, he noted specks of sand. Where did that come from?

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

"Did you find your _Yuanfen_?" John asked curiously. It was a personal question and John though for a moment Reggie wouldn't respond.

However, Reggie's face split into a grin. They were laying side by side behind a large sand dune, waiting for orders. "I was lucky. Didn't take long at all. She's waiting for me back home."

"You marry her?"

Nodding, Reggie's eyes sparkled with a kindness John had yet to see from the impulsive American. Some, but not all, counterbalances ended up in a romantic relationship. It was unusual that the relationship lasted. Two complete opposites couldn't exist in that close of a relationship. Most counterbalances were friends. Or enemies.

It was a friendship or a hatred that lasted a lifetime and, as some speculated, even longer.

The sand slid down on top of them as someone approached. "It's all clear," an officer said from above.

Nodding, both Reggie and John stood up and brushed themselves off. Nothing had happened for days around here. John's hand was shaking slightly, and he stuffed it into a fist. The doctor, his superior, had already noticed the tremor and told him to take a few days off. It hadn't helped.

This patrol was like every other one. Nothing would happen, John told himself.

In an attempt to keep distracted from his shaking fingers, John turned his mind back to the _Yuanfen._ What happened to people who never found their counterbalance? As he climbed up the hot sand, he knew the answer. Most spent their lives alone, lonely and longing. Some went mad. John figured he probably be one of those who ended up alone. How many people out there were named _Sherlock_? The chances of finding one man in the billions were atrociously small.

The sun was hot and bright, and John had to squint to see clearly. They marched down to the main road, feet crunching in small rocks. It smelled of sweat and salt. Besides the sound of shuffling clothes as they walked to join the rest of the patrol, the world was eerily silent.

Suddenly his companion stopped. "I don't like this," Reggie whispered. "Something's-"

He didn't finish. A sharp Arabian cry crackled through the air like electricity and dark clothed individuals swamped out of hidden places like ants. John's heart pounded, and he cast wide eyes toward his friend.

* * *

 _ **AN: Just realized that is a heck of a cliffhanger. Sorry-not-sorry ;D.**_

 _ **Anyways, please leave a REVIEW. Sherlock is so awkward around emotions, it's difficult to write.**_


	3. Chapter 3

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

Sherlock was busy inspecting the body when it breathed.

She. She breathed.

Bloody-

Sherlock stumbled to his feet. She was still alive. Idiot. She was still alive. There was no one there to help. He'd dismissed them all.

The wound in her side seeped, and Sherlock quickly crouched down again. "Ambulance!" he shouted. "Someone call an ambulance!" Would they hear? What was he supposed to do? Sherlock reached into his pocket. Empty. He'd left his phone on the charger at home like an idiot.

He had precious little knowledge regarding medical procedures, deeming it unnecessary in his line of work. Nervous, his hands fretted back and forth, while the woman continued to breathe, just barely. She was going to die. Right here in his arms.

But suddenly, something clicked in Sherlock's head. It was like he'd put on sunglasses and the world was a slightly different color. And most importantly, he knew what to do. Without bothering to think about it, Sherlock flew into action.

It took three minutes, and then he sat back and took a deep breath. Lestrade's loud steps thudded behind him. "What is it?"

"Call an ambulance. She's alive."

"What? How could we miss-? Whatever." Lestrade dialed quickly and soon hung up. He peered down at Sherlock's quick handiwork over the wound. It was bound tightly, expertly. Lestrade's eyebrows rose. "Didn't know you have medical training."

Sherlock gulped. He stood quickly, blood on his hands. He looked down at the wound with fresh eyes and suppressed a shiver. Where on Earth did that come from? "I don't."

A siren wailed in the distance. With a shiver, Sherlock backed out the door and thudded down the stairs.

"Sherlock!"

"Not now, Lestrade!"

He poured out of the front door and into the busy night. It smelled like rain and the sandwich shop across the street. Sherlock didn't notice. He tried to stuff his hands into his pockets but quickly pulled back. They were still bloody.

What just happened?

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

John finished tying up Reggie's wound the best he could. "I'm sorry. We have to keep moving."

Reggie was pale. Ghostly. His eyes were rimmed red and drooped. Uneasy breaths hitched in his chest. He groaned when John lifted him to his feet but otherwise said nothing.

Hot sand. Bright sun. Cracked lips. The makeshift tent smelled like sweat and blood. John didn't bother to pack it up. It wasn't his anyway. It belonged to some unfortunate and probably dead soul. He needed to get Reggie back to the base. Now. "Stay awake. Reggie? Reggie? Listen to me. You can't fall asleep."

"She's gonna kill me," Reggie muttered. John's shoulder was already sore from carrying him but he hefted the man's arm up higher.

"What are you talking about?"

"My wife," he breathed. "She's gonna kill me if I die."

A sad sort of laugh escaped John. He gripped his friend tightly. "You're not going to die, you idiot. You're gonna live to see her smack you right across the face for scaring her so bad."

Now Reggie laughed. Or, attempted to. He ended up wheezing. "I've never wanted a slap so much."

"Just hold on. We're almost there."

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

It started happening more often; strange things Sherlock couldn't explain. He woke up at two in the morning once, so hungry he shamelessly raided Mrs. Hudson's refrigerator. A few days later he was paralyzed by fear while talking to a suspect. He had to excuse himself and stand outside for several minutes before the phantom of terror passed. Mycroft kept saying to notify him if it got worse, continually the hovering snoop. It got worse. Sherlock didn't tell him.

Instead, Sherlock would develop soreness for no particular reason or feel suddenly so tired he couldn't stand. His adrenaline spiked without prompting. It was… well, disturbing.

After several weeks, Sherlock still wasn't sure what to make of it, or rather _refused_ to make anything of it. He wished Lestrade would ask him to help on the serial suicide cases popping up lately. It would be wonderfully distracting. But he hadn't had any luck. No worries, however. That would soon be remedied. Standing by a frozen pond in a city park, he exhaled slowly and stared at the cigarette dangling between his fingers. Quickly, he put the cigarette between his lips and breathed in the smoke. Taking out his phone, he brought up with a list of people's numbers who would be attending Lestrade's press-conference around now. Creating a group text, he blocked his own number and typed. Lestrade really was an idiot. He thought it was some complex algorithm that let Sherlock text everyone in the room at once.

 _Idiot. Just snitch get the guest list from your desk and use Facebook to get their numbers._

Sherlock pressed the send button. _Wrong._

He smirked tiredly. Wrong about _what_ , he had no idea but Lestrade would have to give in eventually if he kept bugging him. _I_ need _a case._

He did it again. _Wrong_.

There. That should be enough. Their faces would have been quite hilarious, he thought. Sally would be blushing all the way down her neck.

Sherlock closed his eyes, slipping the phone into his pocket, and enjoying the pure silence that enveloped this single moment. It wouldn't last. He didn't care.

The wind carried the smoke away, gray wisps to mix with the fog as security cameras watched on.

Without regard to the calm atmosphere, Sherlock's heart began to race.

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

John Watson coughed.

"You alright?" Reggie. He was behind the wheel of a four wheeler jeep, slurping down the dirt road through a tangled jungle. It was early evening, and the bugs were having a feast. Animals shrieked and cicadas hummed.

John, sitting beside him, nodded. Coughed again. "Yeah. Yeah. Does it smell like smoke to you?"

Reggie frowned; sniffed. "No. Why?"

"I can- _cough-_ hardly breathe." Continuing to cough, John placed his hand on the door handle. "Just- _cough-_ stop for a second."

Confused, Reggie complied. They ground to a stop in the mud, and John pushed open the door. He stepped out into the fading heat and tried to expel the smoke from his lungs. What on Earth?

"Are you asthmatic or something?" Which of course, didn't make sense. Reggie shut his door with a slam and walked toward him with a concerned frown. His boots squelched.

"No," John wheezed. He took a few deep breaths, pulling in the humid air. "I think I'm alright now."

"Alright..." Reggie cocked his head. "That was strange. Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm... fine." John frowned. It _was_ weird. He began walking back toward the jeep when a flash of movement caught his eye. He stopped; peered into the dense jungle around them. Reggie opened his mouth but John hushed him. Out of habit, his hand flitted near the handgun at his waist. It was probably an animal. But you couldn't be too careful.

Another flash. Red. A bandana. Profanity plopped out of Reggie's mouth as they spotted more and more flashes of red. The rest of their troop would roll down this road within ten minutes. But right now they were alone.

"Get in the car," John hissed. "Too many. We've gotta run."

Reggie nodded just barely, and, at the same moment, they dashed for the jeep.

The world exploded.

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

An assistant burst into Mycroft's office. The man was specifically charged to watch Sherlock via security camera, especially since Sherlock was acting peculiar lately.

The man had Mycroft's attention immediately.

"Sir. Look." The man thrust a screen into his hand. A security camera video.

It was Sherlock. Smoking in a park. Alone.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "I thought he stopped..." The camera shook as a breeze rattled it and the next frame came to light in stark clarity.

Oh. Yes, that was cause for alarm. Instantly, Mycroft stood. He grabbed his coat. "This has escalated farther than I would like. I need to talk to him."

The assistant nodded. "Do you really think it's his-?"

"I don't know. Don't pester me."

The man wasn't paying attention. "But is it really possible? It's so rare, I thought it didn't, you know..."

"Do shut up." Mycroft didn't take the time to see the man's startled expression. He was already gone.

The car ride was uneventful but harrowing in its wait.

Mycroft reached the park in five minutes and quickly began to search for his brother. It wasn't hard to find him. A young jogger was at his side. Sherlock was on his knees, clutching his shoulder. The woman beside him had a turned up nose and a slightly lazy eye.

She looked up when Mycroft approached. "I just found him here. Is he alright? Do you know what-?"

"Thank you," Mycroft snapped. "He'll be fine." The woman took a step back but she didn't leave. Mycroft quickly lifted his brother's face. Sherlock's eyes were screwed shut in pain. "Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"Is that you, Reggie?"

Mycroft frowned. "What? No. It's me. Mycroft. Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock opened his eyes. They were dilated, pain filled. "I think someone shot me."

Mycroft shook his head. "No. I saw the video feed. I… apologize, Sherlock. I should have confronted you earlier. You're fine."

A bit of venom finally shot through Sherlock's haze of pain. "I am _clearly_ not _fine_!"

Not bothering to argue, Mycroft just nodded. Carefully, Mycroft unwound Sherlock's fingers from his brother's shoulder. Sherlock hissed as Mycroft shrugged Sherlock's coat off and unbuttoned his shirt. "Look, Sherlock. See?"

Sherlock saw.

His jaw slackened. "Wh-what?"

His shoulder was fine. As Mycroft expected it to be. Mycroft bit his lip worriedly. How was he to handle this?

Sherlock was busy blinking at his shoulder, not understanding. The pain seemed to fade. Sherlock relaxed. When he chose not to see the answer, the genius could be downright blind. Carefully, Mycroft stood him up. "You're okay. You gonna be alright."

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then closed it. He shook his head slowly.

They had both forgotten the young jogger until she spoke up, just as shocked as Sherlock. "Oh my gosh," she breathed, "You get phantoms."

Both Holmes brother's gazes shot her.

Sherlock was paler than usual. His eyes danced between Mycroft and the woman as she jogged away, apparently satisfied that he was in good hands. "That's not…?" he trailed off, his question landing on Mycroft. He settled on a statement. "That's not what happened here."

"Don't delude yourself, Sherlock."

Sherlock gulped. "Mycroft, I could feel it. Ripping my shoulder. Hitting the bone. I swear I was shot."

"No. It was a phantom. Like the woman said."

 **Phantoming** : (Fahn-tohm-eeng) v.

 _Temporarily sharing the emotions, memories, talents, or physical state of_ Yuanfen _counterbalance. Physical sensations can include, but are not limited to smell, taste, hearing, and touch, which is most often experienced through pain. On the rare occasion, knowledge and certain talents of the other counterbalance can be accessed._

"It makes sense," Mycroft murmured.

Sherlock did not respond. His eyes were glazed over. If anything, Sherlock was logical. It would be foolhardy to keep avoiding this conclusion. Mycroft watched his brother come to that conclusion, noting the resignation in his eyes. "How am I supposed to function if I am constantly bombarded by the life of some _stranger_?" he hissed.

Mycroft pursed his lips. The idiot still didn't get it. " You have always felt stronger than me, Sherlock. It makes sense your connection would be deeper." Mycroft pursed his lips, dreading the words as he spoke them. "You need to stop fighting."

Sherlock sneered. "I will not waste my life striving to find someone who is nigh impossible to locate."

Slowly, Mycroft nodded, guilt pulsing through his chest. His brother's opinion on the matter was his doing. "I need to show you something."

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

Every bump of the jeep sent jagged agony up and down John. He unclenched his teeth long enough to spit out instructions to Reggie, who was driving, dodging bullets, and trying to keep John from bleeding out in the backseat.

"I can't tie it!" Reggie shouted. He cussed, dodging a ditch in the road and swerving awfully. The jungle was a blur outside.

"Neither can I!" John answered. His entire left arm was limp with pain. But he was not about to die because he couldn't tie a ruddy knot to stop the bleeding.

Pulling himself up into a semi-sitting position, John took the strap of fabric in his teeth, thinking, through a hazy head of pain, that he either looked like a corpse or a freaking G.I. Joe. Hardcore, like, woah.

Dear lord, he must be seriously lacking blood to have stupid thoughts like that.

"Almost there, John! You alive?"

"Shockingly." John tightened the strap around his shoulder wound the best he could, knowing it was not nearly tight enough. "How much farther?" He hissed in pain when they thumped over a log.

"Sorry!" Reggie looked back, finding a second to give him a wild grin. "I told you. We're almost there." The sudden sound of gunshots knocked the smile off his face. He faced the road again and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. "Persistent dudes."

But soon the shouting, the jungle, the gunshots, were left behind.

They shrieked to a stop in front of the marching troop. Knowing they were safe, John slumped in relief. He was so… _tired_.

 _He's hurt! Get him a doctor! Now!_

 _Ambush... They're waiting… Not enough soldiers._

 _Don't fall asleep, John. Remember? That's what you told me._

And then John knew no more.

* * *

 ** _AN: Forgot to mention, I did not originally write this in a chapter format, so I'm just picking and choosing places to stop. Sorry if it's abrupt. Please leave a REVIEW!_**


	4. Chapter 4

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

The graveyard was green and grey; the trees bare cracks in the sky. Sherlock and his brother Mycroft stood in front of a simple gravestone.

"You know how I said that I never found my counterbalance?"

Sherlock nodded, quiet.

"Well, I lied."

"This is her?"

"Yes."

Sherlock risked a peek at his brother's face. It was stone.

"There's a woman going around this city flaunting her name of late. I thought I should stop her, but… it hardly matters." Mycroft pressed his umbrella tip studiously into the grass.

 _Mary Morstan_

 _Much loved._

Sherlock figured they were not here to merely stare at Mycroft's personal tragedy. "How long did you know her?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Not long. We met a few times, and it was obvious she was... she was…" He trailed off and a strange light lit his eyes. It was unlike anything Sherlock had ever seen in his brother. "Oh, she was brilliant, Sherlock."

"But-"

"I know." Mycroft had never implied in any way that he thought the _Yuanfen_ was anything but a waste of time. He turned from the grave, reluctant, like it held him magnetically. "I was… angry." He sighed. "And I thought it was my responsibility to deny you that pain… But I've realized something."

"Hmm?"

Mycroft grimaced, obviously uncomfortable with the words."I… do not wish to control you, Sherlock."

Sherlock snorted, and Mycroft ignored him.  
"Even though it was such a brief time, it was... something else." He stopped. Continued. "In the end, seeing Mary those few times made loosing her worth it, as strange as that sounds. And to think, I was never as connected to Mary as you seem to be to John." Mycroft trailed off and stared resolutely at the floor.

Sherlock was silent. How was he supposed to respond to that? The unexpected sentiment made him want to recoil. He tucked his hands into his pockets and peered steadily at the grave. Some people never got over losing their counterbalance _._ There were support groups everywhere for people who were doggedly trying not to lose their minds. For several reasons. Either their counterbalance had died, or maybe their counterbalance was their enemy (always complicated, as Mrs. Hudson supplied). Some, as Sherlock had researched, were victims of attempted homicides by their counterbalances. There were entire court cases trying to decide whether murder by a counter balance could be labeled suicide or homicide. And did it mean that the killer was insane to do so? Ought they to have help, then?

It was a complicated mess that most people tried not to think about lest they be labeled unkindly. The scientific community, which was adament that _Yuanfen_ was a self-fulfilling prophecy, refused to acknowledge the existence of the _Yuanfen_.

But in most small places. In small shops on the corner of a busy street. On the internet. People raved and rattled and rumbled. It was a community of people much larger than Sherlock had realized.

But none of that was important because Mycroft would never on his life find himself in a support group. The thought of the ensuing sharpness that would ensue caused Sherlock to smirk. It was uncomfortable to imagine.

What Mary was like, the other half of Mycroft Holmes; his opposite? Someone who didn't mind getting dirty, Sherlock guessed. "I'll find John when you keep to your diet," he murmured automatically.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and, for once, did not accept Sherlock's bait. It was then that Sherlock knew his brother was serious. Entirely serious. Mycroft really, honestly wanted him to make his own decision. He would support him if he chose to look… and if he chose not to.

Slowly, Sherlock let go of the leash he had on his curiosity. For the first time, Sherlock wondered if John was alright. If he had gotten shot maybe… no. Sherlock felt he would know if John died. He must be okay. Sherlock let out a tired sigh. "I ought to find him but-"

"You're afraid."

Sherlock cringed. "No."

"Yes."

Mildly irritated, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I am _undecided_. If I do search for John and can't find him, what then? I'll have devoted myself and how could I…"

Mycroft turned him so that they faced each other. Sherlock flinched unconsciously when Mycroft touched his shoulder. "Look at you, Sherlock, you're already devoted. Good grief, you shared the pain of a bullet wound from a world away. There's no reason to keep torturing yourself."

Carefully, Sherlock considered his words. He nodded very slowly.

Mycroft was right, drat it. Sherlock ought to have resisted. He _should_ have resisted on principle. But…

He wanted John, dang it. For a reason Sherlock couldn't quite define. It wasn't irritation, or amusement. Not even curiosity. There was a sort of empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

It was like when you've lost something you can never have back. That nervous knot that twists and twists.

How do you miss someone you've never met?

"Say I look for him," Sherlock said quietly, "You said it yourself. Six million Johns."

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft motioned for them to sit down at a nearby bench. They did. It was wooden and splintery. "I really thought you were better than that, Sherlock. You've been sharing part of his headspace for weeks. What can you gather?"

Sherlock settled into the bench. He frowned thoughtfully. That was a very valid point. He hadn't let himself think about it before now. Considering for a moment, Sherlock let his conclusions roll haltingly across his tongue. "I think he's in danger often," he mused. "My adrenaline spikes quite randomly. Also, my hands tend to shake."

"Like PTSD?"

"Sort of. Also, he's also not eating or sleeping very well. Sand… I keep finding sand in my hair. He gets sunburned. Hmm… He has medical knowledge. A doctor, I'd say, and a good one, but he's a bit young for that. Maybe an assistant? Lots of… marching, maybe? Feels like that. My legs are always sore from walking. Also, I think he's blonde."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "See? More than enough information. Combine frequent adrenaline, PTSD, lack of food and sleep, sunburns, marching, knowledge of the medical field…"

Sherlock sat up suddenly. "A soldier."

"Congradulations." Mycroft nodded approvingly. "A soldier with medical knowledge?"

"A young army doctor. Yes. That would fit." Now that he wasn't restraining himself, Sherlock realized he knew far more than he thought. "A blonde army doctor's assistant named John. My age. If he's blonde, he's probably Caucasian. Somewhere with lots of sand."

"That leaves you two options."

"Afghanistan or Iraq."

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

John stirred to soft murmuring above him. The words had an exotic, fluid sound, and he understood them detachedly.

"Hello, sweet. You're gonna be alright. I've made sure of that."

John shifted, blinked open his eyes. The ceiling was grey with yellow water stains. A young woman with petite features and dark eyes leaned over him.

She smiled at him. Her teeth were yellow like the water stains on the ceiling. Around her neck swung a small necklace. The Eiffel Tower charm was well worn with the word _chéri_ etched on the side.

 _Only sold in France. Woman is from France? Woman could have visited France. Well-worn necklace. Probably from a loved one. More likely she lives in France. Wears it in the shower. Creature of habit. A nurse, obviously. A French nurse? Wait. What am I doing in France?_

John stopped his thoughts there.

Well. That was clever. Since when could he figure out things like that? Abolishing the thought, John focused his eyes on the woman's face.

"Why am I in-?" he started.

But the woman interrupted him. "I get friend," she said haltingly, her French accent heavy. "Only little English."

Quickly gifting him with a kind smile, the nurse backed out of the room and left John in befuddlement. Hadn't he understood her soothing him just a moment before?

But yet again, this thought was thrown away by more pressing matters. Like Reggie. His friend stepped into the hospital room with a wide grin that almost hid his sleep-deprived eyes. He was thinner and paler than John remembered.

How long had he been asleep?

John recalled being, well, shot. That wasn't something one forgot. But how he ended up in France of all places was a mystery to him. And what was Reggie doing here anyway?

Reggie must have seen the questions zipping across John's face because he laughed softly and closed the door. He flopped down in an uncomfortable chair beside the bed and immediately propped up his legs.

"Hello, soldier. You scared the heck out of me."

John blinked. "I'm in France."

"Yup. How'd you know?"

"Why am I in France?" John asked, instead of answering Reggie's question.

"You were relieved from duty because your injury was so bad. Had to be shipped out. You've bounced around a bit. Different hospitals. It's a temporary situation if you heal well."

"And if I don't?" John's voice was quiet. On a bedside table across the room, there was a glass vase full of fake purple flowers.

Reggie pursed his lips and removed his legs from the bed. "You'll be honorably discharged and sent back to England on army pension. London, probably."

John said nothing.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"You alright?"

"Fine."

They both knew that was a lie. But Reggie didn't argue. With a small sigh, John shifted his weight to look at Reggie with more ease, and cringed at the twinge of pain in his shoulder. The twinge traveled all the way down into his leg. "Why are you here, Reggie? You should still be out with the troop."

Now Reggie grinned again, sloppily. "Well, I could hardly let them fly my friend out all alone."

John blinked. That was unexpected. Truly and completely.

He liked Reggie. A lot. He really did. Reggie could talk up a storm, and kill every somber mood. John had never had a friend quite like him.

But John never thought that Reggie shared that same sort of kinship. Especially to the point that he would maneuver his way into coming with John. It couldn't have been easy. He wasn't sure how he even managed it. John didn't know how to respond.

"Gosh, Reggie, you didn't have to-"

"I _wanted_ to, and I'm not about to listen to you complain about it."

They were silent for a moment, but then John gave Reggie a small smirk. "I'll probably go deaf with you here all the time."

"Oh, believe me. I am determined to talk your ears right off."

* * *

 _ **AN: Sorry about the wait. Leave a review :))**_


	5. Chapter 5

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

"Hello, Sherlock. How are you today?"

"High." Sherlock stuffed his hands into his pockets, feeling the syringes he was nicking, his cell phone, and a pair of gloves. He padded his jacket. Where did he put the jar of livers?

Molly Hooper blinked, not quite sure how to respond. "I- I'm sorry?"

"I said, I'm high. And if you're wondering, it's of no fault of mine." Sherlock did not have the patience for impertinent questions. It didn't help that he could hardly think, drugged as he was. His head pulsed with fever. Sherlock waved around dismissively and swayed slightly. "I'm not going to even bother finishing this. Apparently they've upped his pain medication."

"What?"

Hissing, Sherlock waved her away and stepped outside into the winter air. He left Molly with a cocked head, jar of livers in her hands. The door thudded shut behind him, and the detective pulled into the semi-busy sidewalk. The lights of the cars were bright and piercing and each person who passed sounded like a thunderstorm.

There was a sharp wind but Sherlock didn't mind. He was so atrociously hot, and the low temperature was like a cool rag. If he stood out here long enough, would it lower John's fever?

An interesting hypothesis… John was clearly at a hospital, given the drugs. Obviously he was not recovering as fast as he should. For the first time, Sherlock wished he could talk to him. _Get well already, you idiot. I've got things to do._

"You alright, Mister?"

Sherlock coughed and nodded. "Fine." He didn't even look up. The speaker moved on. Exhaustion bleeding into his limbs, Sherlock stopped at a signpost and leaned against it. How long had he been walking? Gently, he rested his forehead against the cool metal. He sighed in relief. Could John feel what he felt? Did it work both ways? Probably.

The world was silent around him.

Right. Fine. Enough of this. Fishing clumsily for his phone, Sherlock managed to fetch it from his pocket, only to drop it on the sidewalk. Muttering, Sherlock picked it up again and dialed the first number he came across. As he waited for the line to connect, Sherlock raised his eyes and realized he hadn't the faintest idea where he was. His mind palace was fuzzy with the drugs and fever, and his vision was blurry enough that he had to squint to read the street sign above him. The road was mostly empty. No walkers passed by. It was getting dark.

Finally, the phone clicked. "Hello?" said a rough voice. A sore throat.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock croaked. "Is that you?"

"Yes. It's me. Sherlock? Are you alright?"

"Sort of. It's… complicated." Sherlock shut his eyes as his headache intensified. He hissed. "I'm not injured. But I am… in need of assistance." His pride kicked him in the gut.

There was a long silence. "If this is some kind of experiment, Sherlock, I will-"

"It's not," Sherlock interrupted. "I can't explain. Not now. I'm at the corner of Harwood and Carta. Come." He hung up and dropped his hand to his side. His phone slipped from his grasp, and slowly, Sherlock sat himself down, back against the cool pole. "Wish there was snow," he whispered wearily. "Could hold it on my head and lower his fever..." He had no idea if that would do anything.

Sherlock wasn't sure how much time passed. It was a haze of pain and drug induced blurs.

"Jeez, Sherlock." Clothes shuffled as someone ran near. Rough hand on his head. "You said you weren't hurt."

"M'not."

"What do you mean?"

"Sick. Ish..."

There was a pause and then a strong arm wrapped around him, pulling the detective to his feet. "Come on. Let's get you home." Lestrade smelled like cigarettes and leather and coffee. "You're high, aren't you?"

Sherlock let his head dangle but suddenly he stiffened. He remembered a similar scene from a few years prior. Lestrade was there then too.

" _You're high, aren't you? You're an idiot, you know that? Abusing yourself like this. Drat it, Sherlock, can you even hear me?"_

" _Oh, shut up."_

"I didn't do it," Sherlock insisted urgently. Lestrade had a cab waiting, and he opened the door. Suddenly it was very important that Lestrade understood. He hadn't broken his promise. He hadn't. "It wasn't me, Lestrade. It wasn't me."

"Alright, Sherlock, I believe you." Lestrade said softly. He shouldered the detective into the cab and entered after him. He shut the door. "221B Bakers St," Lestrade told the driver softly.

Sherlock relaxed in relief, and after that, life became a series of snippets.

Honking traffic.

Lestrade's shoulder again.

Mrs. Hudson. "Oh, poor dear,"

Stumbling stairs. Lestrade: "I should take you to the hospital. You've got a horrible fever."

"M' fine. He's already at a hospital. Where'd you think the drugs came from?"

"... What?"

"Tell you… 'bout it… later."

Cool sheets.

Darkness.

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

John's fever broke around midnight. He'd taken a turn for the worse the last few days and still felt ruddy awful. But at least the drugs weren't suffocating him anymore. He could think clearly now.

Reggie was in his usual spot, pretending to read a book but actually watching his friend with the eye of an eagle. Tiredly, John sat up. His eyes wandered to the window.

What were they doing out there? What had happened in Afghanistan since he'd left? With each day that he rocked back and forth between recovery and relapse, John's chances of returning quickly diminished. The thought of living as a normal citizen again left an empty ache in his stomach. London was a beautiful city. A beautiful… normal… dull city. He knew in his heart he would not be returning to the war. Not anymore.

Little steps. He had to think in little steps. First: get out of the hospital. Second...

…

Well. He'd figure that out soon enough.

"Reggie?" John murmured, to distract himself. A small memory surfaced in his mind. "The strangest thing happened when I first woke up." His eyebrows drew together in a perplexed frown as he recollected.

"What's that?"

"The nurse. You know, the one who just speaks French?"

"What about her?'

"When I first woke up here… I could have sworn she was talking to me."

Reggie shrugged and adjusted the book in his hands. "She talks to all her patients."

"In French?"

"Well, yeah. Why?"

John pursed his lips. "I understood her. It sounded… strange. But I knew what her words meant."

Reggie blinked at him. He shut the book slowly. "You're telling me you understand French and didn't know it?"

John shrugged. "It sounds crazy when you say it like _that_."

"Just a bit." Reggie picked up a pen and chewed on it. He probably needed a smoke. "You could have just dreamed it."

"Probably."

An interested gleam lit Reggie's eyes, and he bent down to retrieve a laptop from the floor. "But just in case it wasn't…" He typed on the computer. "And because I'm bored. Here we are."

John looked at him, confused. "What are you-?"

"Can you understand this, John Watson?" said a female, computerized voice from the laptop.

Slowly John nodded. "Yes. I understand."

Instantly Reggie's gaze shot up from the computer and met John's eyes. There was a pregnant pause as the two men stared at each other, Reggie's gaze thick with surprize.

"You could have guessed that," he finally spouted.

"What?"

Reggie typed on the computer. "Reggie Williams is allergic to strawberries," the computer continued.

Finally, it dawned on John. He looked at Reggie worriedly, and Reggie looked back at him with the same amount of confusion. "That was… in French?" John asked quietly.

"Of course it was. What did it say?"

John bit his lip. Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned the nurse at all. "It said you're allergic to strawberries."

Reggie frowned. "Are you playing some sort of trick on me?"

"No."

"You obviously know French."

"That's impossible. My school never offered it. I remember being relieved."

"But?"

John bit his lip. "You don't just delete learning a whole language."

"You're not a computer John."

John opened his mouth and then closed it again. Delete? Since when did he say that?

"Here." Reggie typed on the computer. "Let's see if you know anything else…"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Hush. Listen."

The computer piped up, "Last night I ate four jars of peanut butter."

John blinked. "That's… going to give you a heart attack."

"You understood?"

"Yeah. Peanut butter."

Reggie continued biting fiercely on his pen. "This is, like, something from the Twilight Zone."

"What language was that in?"

"Russian."

"What?" John sat up straighter, careful not to jostle his shoulder. "You're lying."

"Nope." Reggie popped the 'P'. He spun the laptop to reveal an internet translation program. "See here?" He pointed at a little speaker button and then pressed it.

The computer repeated what it said before. Both John and Reggie were silent.

"You swear you can't understand that."

"Of course, I don't understand it. It's Russian." Leaning back in the chair. Reggie turned the laptop toward himself again and typed.

They spent the next two hours in this manner. Until they finally ran across languages John did not understand.

"Seventeen," Reggie muttered. He rubbed his eyes. "Good grief, you know seventeen languages."

John fell backwards onto the bed and shut his eyes. "It's gotta be some kind of misunderstanding. Some sort of computer glitch."

"We've already gone over this. I'm listening to the same thing you are. It's not in English."

John kept his eyes closed. He could feel the warm sheets underneath him; hear the rattling vent in the corner. Reggie's tapping fingers were like a metronome.

Suddenly Reggie gasped. His eyes were on the laptop."Oh. Oh, we're idiots, John. It's just possible that..."

John blinked open his eyes and turned toward him. A question puckered his lips. "What?"

Reggie typed furiously and finally nodded. "There. Look at that." He turned the computer so that John could see. It was open to an old research journal. John recognized the symbol of two intertwined hearts in the top corner. The _Yuanfen_.

"You're phantoming."

* * *

 ** _AN: Hello peoples! Just to clarify, obviously people still have friends in this universe who are not their counterbalance. It would be kinda unrealistic for them to not have their own lives. A reviewer seemed kinda confused about John being friends with Reggie. But yeah, I always thought John's life before Sherlock was pretty vague in cannon, so I'm trying to get at more of his life than the show actually talks about. Also, I've wanted to create a story with an OC for a while. Reggie is just a bit of my imagination that was supposed to be in one scene but I've come quite attached to him. Not sure how much we'll see of him after this. What do you guys think? Leave a REVIEW, if you please :DDD_**


	6. Chapter 6

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

"You."

"Are you always this slow? _Yes_ , me."

"Right." Lestrade cocked his head. "But you're…"

"I'm what?"

"I dunno. I just wouldn't think that you of all people would be able to do that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped down in an armchair. His temples ached, pulsing with the swollen veins of his headache. "Fate must have a sense of humor." He refused to look at the police inspector. Bakers Street had been very quiet the last few days as Sherlock regained his normal functionality. John's health must be finally looking up.

Lestrade sat down in a kitchen chair and pursed his lips. His shirt was wrinkled and he had a coffee stain on his jeans (another all-nighter. Doesn't want to go home to his wife) but the inspector didn't appear to notice. "To be honest," the man continued blatantly, "you hardly let yourself feel your own emotions, much less some other bloke's."

Sherlock glared at him and attempted to feel irritated. Eventually Lestrade shifted his weight awkwardly and glanced down.

"Sorry. It's true."

Rolling his eyes once more, Sherlock returned to a staring contest with the skull across the room. It was gathering dust and he considered whether or not he should make the effort to clean it. Mrs. Hudson would not touch the thing, unfortunately. "Have you got a case for me?"

Lestrade blinked. "I, um, well. No, not really. And _no_ , before you ask, I don't need you on the suicides. Other than that, criminal activity has been rather low of late." (Further proof that said all-nighter at office was self inflicted to avoid unnecessary nagging)

Sherlock sighed. "How irritating."

"Thought you'd say that. As it is…" Lestrade picked up a book bag and riffled through it. "Your brother, the odd one..."

"I've only got one brother."

"Oh," Lestrade continued, taking out a black file, "Well, anyways, he dropped this off at the office while you were asleep. Said you'd want it so I brought it over."

Sherlock stared at the file and then carefully stood. He took it from Lestrade and turned it over in his hands. It had Mycroft's streamline simplicity about it, with no indication to its contents whatsoever. "Did you look inside?"

"Didn't have the pleasure."

"How obedient of you." Sherlock turned away and plopped back down in his chair. It squeaked under his weight. He undid the sticker closing the pile, and pulled out a finger width stack of stapled papers.

"What is it?"

Sherlock thumbed the pages idly. "A list."

Lestrade was behind him now. Looking. Sherlock let him. "What sort of list?"

"Potential John's, I assume." Lestrade did need Sherlock to explain which John he meant. Sherlock sighed dramatically, feeling far more awkward than he liked. Lestrade generally had the idea that he was a heartless pain in the bottom and Sherlock preferred to keep it that way. This was dangerously close to sentimental. "Mycroft is always into my business..." Sherlock fell into a quiet lull for a moment, looking over each name on the first page carefully. They all supposedly matched the vague-ish attributes Sherlock had described of John. His John.

But nothing rang a bell (he wasn't sure if it would). With a sudden exhale, Sherlock stood quickly. "I have work to do, Lestrade. If you wouldn't mind closing the door when you leave, I'd be grateful."

Lestrade smirked, sipping the last of his coffee and discarding it. "You'll find him. I know you will. Finding people is what you do."

"Your confidence in me is riveting," Sherlock replied. He tucked the list back into the envelope. "Now go away, Lestrade. I'm busy."

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

"You're leaving then?"

Reggie was back in uniform. The nice one used around civilians, not the sort people died in. Smiling sadly, Reggie didn't bother saying anything for once. He pulled him into a rough hug, still careful to not jostle John's shoulder.

"Hey, don't look so… I dunno. Like I just killed your puppy or something."

That finally got a small smirk out of John. "I'm glad for you, Reggie. Really. If I could come back too, you know I would."

"Course you'd come. You're an idiot like that."

"Says the man about to get a plane to Afghanistan." They both chuckled but it was a jangling sort of sound to cover up the blue sadness trickling underneath. They almost were successful.

"Don't stay by yourself for too long, Watson," Reggie said after a moment. "You'll get all stuffy, I can feel it. You've got to find that genius partner of yours. Stick with him. And if you can't find him get married or something. Or better, do both."

John rolled his eyes. "The life advice of Reggie: get married or something."

Reggie smiled but his eyes were serious. The cold wind wrapped her fingers around them, flapping the tags on Reggie's baggage. There was a plane waiting on the runway behind them. Once Reggie got inside, it would fly away, and John would be in the smell of gasoline and sunscreen; left to make his way to London. Because he didn't have any other sort of plan.

"Seriously though," the American continued, "Find the man. You'll know when it's him." Reggie paused at his own words and gave a little laugh. "That sounds like a soap opera but it's true."

John's gaze just stuck to his shoes, trying to act like he was okay with this. "You're leaving. Why are we even talking about this? About me? I'll be fine." Reggie raised an incredulous eyebrow, and John sighed, "Look, I don't even know this _Sherlock_ , Reggie." Despite himself, a shiver of sadness swept over John at the articulation of the name. No. Not sadness. Almost a homesickness.

It was just a bit terrifying, really.

"Because I'm your friend, and I want you to be happy." Reggie winked. His red hair lit up a devilish halo around his head, the sun at his back. "Besides, you mooched seventeen languages of the poor son of a gun. I think you at least owe him a hello."

With a sad smile, John watched Reggie climb up the stairs and disappear into the plane. He waved as he pulled away but John couldn't the bite down the sadness in his throat. There were two threads stretching from the base of John's ribs. Sad, lonely sort of threads. Thinner and thinner as they stretched.

A string toward Reggie, his only friend, stretching farther and farther into the distance.

And an impossible, terrifying string toward a man named Sherlock.

How could he miss someone he hadn't even met?

There are stranger things, as they say.

John limped back to a taxi. But honestly, what sort of things?

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

Afghanistan.

It had to be Afghanistan.

Well. No. It didn't have to be but it was highly probable.

Or Iraq. It also had to be Iraq.

Growling in frustration, Sherlock swiped at his wall, which was covered in paper. This wasn't the wall in the living room. Where everyone could see and admire his complex genius.

No. This was his mystery. On the wall in the attic. For no one but Sherlock to admire.

And maybe John. If Sherlock ever bloody found him.

But at this rate, he'd spent two days awake without eating, and Mrs. Hudson was starting to pucker at his door, and he'd turned away two clients until someone had the audacity to climb into his window and the only reason _that_ man was still alive was because he really was rather clever and his problem with his daughter's husband was quite fascinating. But seriously, _there were four hundred Johns from Iraq and two hundred from Afghanistan there was no time for missing rings_.

HOW ON EARTH WAS HE SUPPOSED TO DO THIS?

Sherlock tore a list of names Mycroft gave him off of the wall and let it drift to the floor.

John Rush.

John Kingston.

John Rolling.

John Smith.

Jonathan Barth.

John Wayne

Allen, Humdinger, Kirk, Pendragon, Nobel, Tyler, Jones, Pond, Williams, Watson, Oswin, Oswald...

Sherlock stopped.

The paper lay at his feet, against his bare toes. On the back, toward the bottom was one name that caught his attention.

Watson.

John Watson.

Sherlock said it slowly. Out loud. "John Watson." A shiver of displacement spiked all the way down to his heels. He crouched and touched the name with a finger tip. He said it again. "John Watson." The same shiver. Stronger. It was familiar now; the strengthening connection that buzzed in the back of his mind. How utterly, completely, and totally fascinating. A reaction was produced from the mere sight of the name, not to mention the sound of the syllables. How did that work? Was his mind coded to remember such a name specifically? Or was it the sound? What if the person didn't have a name or if he had been deaf or blind? What then?

He picked up the paper and read the sparse information supplied about the man, including his last known location. He met all of the data perfectly. Smirking, Sherlock stood and brushed his thoughts aside. Plenty of time for that. Right now...

Gotcha.

Sherlock was out the door, paper and wallet in hand, so quickly Mrs. Hudson had to run after him with his coat. He'd thrown on a pair of shoes and a backpack full of clothes. She tutted something about the cold but Sherlock didn't hear her. His blood pounded in his ears and excitement ran through his veins.

John Watson. The last name fit John like a well-worn glove.

Curiouser and curiouser, as they say.

"Tell Lestrade I'm going on a trip. Won't be available." Tightening his scarf, Sherlock hailed a taxi amid a cacophony of honks and splashing tires. He couldn't help the grin that soon settle on his face. _Found you._

Mrs. Hudson looked only mildly surprised. She was quite used to her tenant's spontaneous adventuring. "Where to?"

"France."

* * *

 ** _AN: I am feeling my own feels as I write (Idk what that even means) but I love writing this so much I can't even explain. But yeah. Leave a review and follow and favorite and all that jazz. We're getting there, guys. They'll get there eventually._**

 ** _So it's kinda funny. As I was writing this story, I kept running into a problem. I had no idea how I was actually going to have them meet without having this unbearable awkwardness. Having John and Sherlock as total strangers embrace in the street or something like that when they finally catch up to each other (which will happen at some point btw) felt like the cheesiest and OOC thing that I have ever thought about writing. And so I really had to play before I came up with something that would actually work with their characters. So you've got that to look forward to. Again, leave a_ review _._**


	7. Chapter 7

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

John rocked back and forth to the jarring rhythm of the Tube. He didn't have the funds for a taxi. A young woman yammered loudly to her friend behind him, and a baby wailed across the car. People sniffed and coughed and an old woman had fallen asleep in a corner seat. John tuned it all out, staring sightlessly at a cereal advertisement.

If he was a proper sibling-turned-soldier returned home, John might have not even considered staying away from his family. His only family. He would be riding there right now. Just out of London to visit his sibling. Harriet, or, Harry, as she insisted.

However, he wasn't a proper sibling. Harry wasn't either. Sure, they were related, but they sure didn't relate.

It had been two weeks since he'd arrived in London. Two weeks of getting settled and wishing he didn't have to.

No, he wouldn't visit Harry. They'd just argue. She'd made a halfhearted attempt to visit him in France, giving him her old phone and dumping all of her troubles onto his shoulders, slightly drunk all the while. Apparently, she and Clara had 'gone separate ways,' as she put it. Harry went into all the details of Clara's betrayal and Harry's eventual walk-away. She'd murmured a late happy birthday, and John had avoided any questions about the _Yuanfen_. Harry was really into that stuff. Palm readers and fortune tellers and phantoms and that ridiculous claptrap.

Except, it wasn't all ridiculous now, was it? John shifted uncomfortably, poking at the corner of his brain where the weird loneliness resided.

Whatever.

Back to Harry...

It was quite pathetic really, that she needed him to hear her story in order to validate its importance.

John chided himself. When had he become so apathetic? He loved Harriet, scarred and broken as she was. She was no better than him. He needed to remember that.

Maybe he really should visit.

But…

She'd ask about the _Yuanfen_ and his leg again and wonder why he limped [and needed to use a cane like an old crank instead of a man in his early twenties] when it was his shoulder that was shot. John really didn't want to answer that. He didn't know.

They already got him a ruddy therapist for it. The thought made John's hands tremble. He clenched his fists and unclenched them. It didn't help. He sighed. He was just so... "Bored."

Someone next to him snorted. "You've got that right, mate."

John blinked. Did he say that out loud? He really needed to pay more attention. He wasn't one to usually complain about such a minor discomfort like _boredom_ , of all things. There was nothing wrong with a nice steady train ride to a calming therapist who thinks you're traumatized. Even if you really aren't.

There was nothing wrong at all.

Except, that it was all so…

John stopped the thought.

It was what? Normal, dull, monotonous?

Meaningless?

Pointless?

Boring.

Perhaps there _was_ something wrong with him.

The subway shifted its speed, and John rocked with the movement. They'd arrived at his stop. Pursing his lips, he drummed his fingers against the cane and quickly exited.

Most people his age were still in university. The thought came suddenly and insistently.

When he was nineteen, although you'd have to gun him before he'd admit it, John had been well on his way to graduating in the medical field. He learned early on that drawing attention to his unusual childhood only caused problems. He'd finished secondary school at fourteen and after excelling in all of his university classes, he was about to take on a form of apprenticeship with a doctor.

But then he father died, his last wish that his genius [failure] of a son become a soldier.

A killer.

Not a doctor. What else was John supposed to do? He loved his father. Gruff words, loud voice and all.

In the end, John settled in the middle by becoming the assistant to the army doctor. The doctor recognized his talents quickly. He was one of the few people who didn't question John because of his age.

But now how was he supposed to continue? Now that he was back 'home.' John doubted anyone would hire a mostly-trained doctor who looked about twelve, as Reggie would say. Not to mention, the tremor in his hand would keep him from ever advancing. Going back to university would be… well, John wasn't sure. He was mostly finished at nineteen anyhow. Did he still want that? While classes and education had seemed so important before, after being shot, it suddenly wasn't as vital.

Maybe that was why his father wished him to go to war. It had a way of growing a boy up.

Either way, John now felt like he existed in a slightly different place than those his age. All the people who might be in the same life stage as him were almost twice his age. John felt like he was listening to life on a different radio station than his peers. Idly, as he wasted time around the corner from the therapist's office, he wondered, would any of his friends from his time in the university remember him? Maybe he should try to find them...

John glanced down at himself. That blasted cane. The scars on his tanned hands.

No. Even if they did recognize him, John doubted he would want to spend more than a passing moment in their presence. They were still worried about who was dating who and what was showing on the telly and where to find the hottest bars while John found himself scanning rooftops for snipers and flinching at the sound of fireworks. As he said, different channel.

Not to mention, he hadn't had real friends in university, to be honest. They were more like… John didn't have a word for it. Spectators, maybe? He was the zoo exhibit, this bookish, stubborn, short kid who somehow ended up in their university classes. His older sister's wild lifestyle only gave them more reason to stare. They hung onto that information, throwing it in his face.

Like he really cared to hear what they thought about Harry.

Glancing at his watch and seeing that he had successfully wasted ten minutes of his appointment, John nodded approvingly and entered the office, limping all the while. It smelled like lavender and eucalyptus and was painted shades of light blue. Apparently, the atmosphere was meant to be 'calming.'

John just found it irritating. He didn't mind being calm. But not if it was _forced_ on him.

Signing in and ignoring the far-too-happy receptionist, [who insisted on calling him kiddo] John sat down in a comfortable chair to wait for the therapist to invite him into his session. This was the worst part of being back in real life. No one treated him like the adult he figured he was.

John's hands trembled. He tucked them between his knees.

Suddenly, John's heart began to race and the familiar string of displacement shivered in his chest.

What was that? Excitement?

Biting his lip, John opened himself to the feeling carefully. It only grew stronger until excitement and worry and exhaustion and hunger [how long had it been since Sherlock had eaten properly?] nearly overwhelmed him.

"Mr. Watson?"

John jerked open his eyes, not realizing they were closed and stood abruptly. His cane clattered to the floor, and he quickly fetched it. Just as swiftly, the flood of emotions ceased. The lack of feeling was just as jarring as the ocean he'd felt a moment before.

Sherlock.

It was Sherlock, John knew. He couldn't deny it. He'd done plenty of research since Reggie suggested phantoms. It fit all the boxes.

John's therapist stood with a clipboard in her hands, a pasted smile on her lips. "John? Please come in." She gestured to the room behind her, and John had to force each step. His brain was speeding faster than he figured was healthy, as it usually did after these more and more frequent lapses into… Sherlock's mind? That sounded crazy. He needed a different term.

The door shut behind them, and John and his therapist were standing in a soft, brown room, a fountain softly twinkling in the corner. John shifted his weight. His jacket scratched against his skin. Every feeling seemed both enhanced and dulled. Like he was high on adrenalin but too blanketed in nervousness to take advantage of it. It was a sensation familiar since he'd moved to London. Actually, his connections with Sherlock had become more and more frequent upon arriving here.

"Would you like some tea?" the therapist offered. John sat slowly and the therapist followed suit. She poured him a cup even though John had been too distracted to reply.

He needed _more._ A few seconds of synchronization was not enough time. John wouldn't lie. Couldn't, really. He enjoyed those moments of connection just as much as he dreaded them. It was… well, it felt dangerous. Scary. And John wanted more of that. That didn't make sense. All the same, it was true. His hands were still.

"John? Are you alright?"

"Hmm? Ah, yes. Just thinking."

There was no way he'd ever explain the truth to the therapist. It would only mean at least a month more of scheduled sessions. People thought that phantoms were just a myth because it was so rare, especially those in the scientific field. Before this month, John had been one of those who shared this view.

Just in case she was the sort, John had decided when he first met the therapist that he wouldn't risk it.

Let her go on about his ruddy trembling hands all she liked.

John had other worries.

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

"I'm looking for John Watson," Sherlock said in clipped French. His stomach twisted in an uncharacteristic demonstration of nervousness. He quelled the emotion quickly.

The nurse at the desk raised an eyebrow and typed on her computer. "Friend of his?"

For a moment, Sherlock's words stuck in his throat. What was he supposed to say? _No, actually, I've never met him, but I'm looking for the man I'm psychically connected with and this might be him. I know science says that phantoms can't exist but here I am as proof._

That wasn't going to work here.

"Sorry. Yes. Old friend. A soldier. I heard he was back from Afghanistan?" Sherlock drummed his fingers on the countertop.

It did not escape Sherlock that this entire adventure was spouting from a mere hunch when it came to the name _John Watson_.

Sherlock's stomach twisted.

On second thought, feeling both ways nauseous and relieved every time he heard that name was adequate evidence.

The French receptionist chewed on her pencil as she looked for John in the computer. Eventually, she shrugged and leaned back. "He was here but you're too late. Apparently, he checked out two weeks ago."

Sherlock growled to himself, pinching between his eyes. _Drat it, Mycroft. Old info._ "Right. Okay. Fine. Do you have any idea where he went?"

The receptionist frowned and typed on the computer again. "He wasn't going back to Afghanistan, that's for sure. His shoulder was too injured, poor guy. He had a friend with him. Another soldier. An American, if I remember correctly. I've got his number… here. Not sure if the man is still in France. He was supposed to go back to Afghanistan. Anyhow, he might know where to find your friend." The receptionist quickly wrote a number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Sherlock.

Murmuring a half-hearted thanks, Sherlock turned away and glanced at the paper. The number was written in black ink with efficient lettering. He shouldered open the glass door and entered the Paris parking lot. Walking toward the street, he counted his steps unconsciously as he stared at the number. _Seven, eight, nine...Was this the key?... Eleven, twelve… I should call now... fourteen… It won't work. Soldiers don't have cell phones while deployed, right?... nineteen, twenty… There's a 6... No, 5% chance he's still in France… twenty-one._

Sherlock stopped on the sidewalk and hailed a passing cab. The air was cool to the touch, and people chattered in French around the detective. Sherlock didn't see any of it.

 _And yet… there's a_ 5% chance _._

Sherlock folded into the cab, and, in impeccable French, spilled out the name of the hotel he was staying for the night. The cabbie nodded.

"Money?"

Sherlock flashed him his credit card, and the cab eased from the curb into the evening traffic. Taking out his phone, Sherlock dialed the number. He would be speaking English. No need to worry about an eavesdropping French cabbie.

The buttons pulsed before him, and it took several seconds of berading until he finally managed to press the 'call' button. Bringing it to his ear, Sherlock let it ring. _It won't connect. Watch. 95% chance he won't answer._

The line clicked and Sherlock nearly dropped the phone. He stared at it, wide-eyed.

" _Hello?"_ came an American accent.

Sherlock stared.

" _Heelllooo? Anyone there? Hey! I answered!"_

Suddenly, Sherlock's trance broke, he shoved it up to his ear. "Yes. Hello. Apologies. I'm here."

" _This is Reggie Williams, how did you get this number?"_ There was only curiosity in his voice.

"The hospital gave it to me. I'm looking for-"

" _Wait. Who is this?"_

Sherlock sighed. He hated being interrupted. "I am looking for a man named John Watson. The woman at the hospital said he was released several weeks ago and that you were supposed to be going back to Afghanistan."

" _I was supposed to, but there was this, like, massive storm, and I ended up getting my trip delayed so I could see my wife and… it's complicated. Sorry. You don't need to know all that. But, yes. I do know John. Again, who's looking for him?"_

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

There was a long pause. Long enough that Sherlock took the phone away from his ear to see if they were still connected. They were.

" _You're joking. This is some kind of messed up joke, right?"_

Sherlock frowned. "Pardon?"

" _Holy crap. This is not happening."_ There was some noise of rapid movement as the man stood. His voice hitched upward with contained excitement.

" _And you're British, too! Do you know the_ odds _of that?"_

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I'm afraid I don't know what-"

" _Don't hang up, okay?"_ the man interrupted. " _Just stay here."_ And then, to someone else, " _Addie! It's the guy! You know! The guy John got all those languages from! … Right!?"_

A breath of relief fell from Sherlock's lips. This was definitely the right John. John must have told his friend about the _Yuanfen_.

Languages? What did that mean?

" _You still there?"_ Sherlock could hear the man's grin through the phone.

"Yes."

" _Good. Good. Stay like that. Is this your cell phone?"_

"Again, yes."

The man, Reggie, laughed a nervous sort of laugh. " _I don't even know what to do! This doesn't happen. This doesn't ever happen!"_

The cab tutted to a stop in front of the cheap hotel, jolting Sherlock back into reality. He hurriedly paid the man and stumbled out of the cab and into the street. His stomach was a ball of twisted knots.

" _You're looking for John because you're his_ Yuanfen _, right?"_

Sherlock pushed through the revolving hotel doors and entered a lobby decorated with fake plants and faded red carpet. Upon nodding to a friendly receptionist, he proceeded to the stairs. "Of course. It has taken a great deal of work to locate the correct John, but seeing that he has mentioned me, I think it is obvious that I have done so. Sherlock is not exactly a common name."

" _I can't believe it's actually you."_ Reggie laughed again. Then there was silence. _"Anyway... What now?"_

Did he have to spell it out? "Do you have a way to contact him?" Sherlock's stomach twisted again. He jangled into his hotel room, throwing his coat on the bed.

 _"No. I didn't think I'd have a phone to call with. But I heard he was going to London on army pension."_ The last words army pension sent a thrill of disappointment and sadness through Sherlock. He now recognized that the feelings were not his own.

Wait.

London?

"London?" he repeated.

 _"Yup."_

"I _live_ in London."

Reggie let out a surprised bark of laughter. "Fate is so weird."

Sherlock murmured his agreement and sat down on the bed. The springs creaked beneath him. "Do you have any more information?"

There was a pause. _"Wait. I think I... Would a picture help? No, don't answer that. Obviously, it would."_

Sherlock thought that he might just crack the phone if he held it any tighter. He chewed the inside of his cheek. "Send it to me."

 _"Gimme a second..."_ Reggie muttered. He was silent for a moment. _"I've got a photo of him here, but my cell won't send pics. I'll have to give it to you in person. You're in Paris, right? You got the number from the hospital."_

Sherlock paused, momentarily side-tracked by the man's kindness. He would go out of his way to help? "Right. But… You don't even know who I am."

 _"Well, maybe not_ you _, but I know John. And John is good."_

The explanation left Sherlock even more speechless than before. John was good.

What did that make Sherlock?

No. No time for that.

"Where do you want to meet, then?"

 _"There's a Starbucks on fifth and third street. Can you find that?"_

"Certainly. Nine tomorrow morning?" Sherlock glanced at his wrist watch.

 _"Sounds good."_

"Alright... I suppose I'll see you then."

 _"Won't that be strange. Okay. Goodbye."_

"... Goodbye."

The line clicked and Sherlock slowly took the device down from his ear. His mind was racing, already wondering what he could do with a picture. Facial recognition?

He was racing. But numb.

Shock? Nerves? Excitement? Dread?

It was all a big knot. The influx of feeling was almost frightening. Especially to someone who tried not to feel at all.

Could John feel his fear? His fear of... what? The unknown? Of John? Of emotions? Of the implications? Of the phantoms?

Sherlock had just found his first substantial piece of this puzzle.

And yet, he'd never felt so lost.

* * *

 _ **AN: That was a longer one for you. Hope you enjoyed. Please review :))**_


	8. Chapter 8

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

In normal life, when you're just some almost-adult doing normal things like shopping and sleeping and studying and working, things like this pass you by when you're strolling down the street early in the evening. You are unaware.

You ignore the female shouts, (someone's playing a joke, right?)… and the racing, hooded man. You also don't notice that said-hooded man has a woman's purse under his arm. Frankly, you don't even hear the increase of frantic yells from behind you.

You also are unaware of the oncoming cars or the trajectory of the hooded man. At this point, you've already tucked your nose into our phone and are around the corner, hoping the coffee shop hasn't closed yet.

But you're not a normal young person. You're a mess of military diligence, trust issues, medical training, PTSD, nervousness, and… well, boredom.

John Watson saw it happen just before it did. As usual, when adrenaline decided to make an appearance, the world slowed for an instant. John could smell the car exhaust and the evening chill. The sun glinted off the windshield of a passing car, and someone took a loud slurp of coffee.

But he still wasn't fast enough to get to the hooded man. "Stop!" John shouted after the figure retreating into the street. John wasn't sure where his bag or his cane or anything went but suddenly he was flying down the sidewalk toward the transpiring accident.

The truck hit the thief, and he made a sound like a hunk of meat. A sort of slap. The crush of bones and the baffling speed that the man was flung backward made John's stomach turn. But John didn't slow. In his peripheral, he registered the screeching of cars as the road came to an abrupt stop. Several walkers screamed.

There was a peculiar moment of complete silence as the street stood still in shock.

Everyone but John.

And suddenly the world swarmed, a pushing, shoving cosmos of bodies and heat as people surged toward and away from the accident.

"Get back" John spat. He pushed his way forward through the crowd. He _needed_ to get to the man.

"I'll call an ambulance!" someone shouted. John didn't see who. He wasn't even sure if it was male or female.

One objective. As he was taught. One focus.

 _The focus: the thief on the tarmac._

 _Probably dead._

 _If not: probably wishes he were._

They were shoving and stepping on John. "Get away, kid."

But John pushed back. "Don't move him! I'm a doctor. Listen to me, I can help!"

In moments of crisis, no one had ever, not once, questioned those words. The crowd melted back like water, and John quickly found himself at the man side.

 _Pulse? Yes._

 _Probably bleeding internally. Broken bones? Arm, definitely. Several ribs. Injure on leg: top priority._

 _Talk to him. Conscious?_

"Hey, can you hear me? Hello? Look at me. Open your eyes. I know it hurts. Open your eyes."

The injured man lay on his back, left arm twisted. His teeth were bloody from the gash on his forehead. He blinked open bright blue eyes, wide with fear, pupils dilated. How young was this guy? Seventeen? John shook his head. _If there's_ _internal bleeding, I can't do anything about it._

"Does anyone have a belt?" John shouted, not looking away. He pressed his hands over the wound on the man's leg, which was bleeding far more than John would have liked. _Only a matter of seconds_. No one responded.

"NOW!"

Instantly, a belt appeared in John's hands. He wrapped it around the man's thigh, just above the slash, and pulled it as tight as he could. He needed to stop the bleeding. The man might lose his leg but he'd have his life. The thief let out a shout of agony which John ignored resolutely.

"You're hurting him!" some idiot cried.

Again, John ignored it.

 _Neck appears fine. But don't move it. Spine injury? Maybe not. Obviously can feel pain in legs. Head trauma? Dilated pupils. Probable concussion._

The man's eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped, unconscious. That was fine. It was the pain.

The wails of an approaching ambulance finally arrived, and the crowd quickly fell back. Flicking his gaze upwards, John's eyes locked with a medic's and he stood quickly. Professionally. "He doesn't appear to have spinal injuries. But be careful. The tourniquet stopped most of the bleeding but you'll need something better or he'll lose the leg. Arm is broken along with at least three ribs. Watch for internal bleeding as well. Given the way he was hit, it is very likely. He's also concussed."

The medic nodded quickly, albeit rather surprised. "Thank you."

And John stepped away.

He stood on the sideline, watching the medics bustled about, getting the man on a stretcher.

What was the thief's name, John wondered? He clenched his fist absently and felt the sticky blood on his hands. Dear lord, what did he just get himself into?

"Does he have my purse?"

The voice was like jangling keys, rupturing John's slightly hazy, adrenaline-high state.

The middle-aged woman pushed her way toward the ambulance but seeing that the medics paid her no mind, the woman gave an indignant huff and stomped toward… John.

Great.

The woman had a lower-end accent and smelled like cigarettes. She pursed her lips angrily, hand on her hip. "You! Did you see my purse? The little devil stole it! That's why he got hit in the first place."

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead settling for a tight, emotionless smile. "I'm sure it's on the street somewhere."

The woman grunted. "Course it is. Probably with all my stuff strew about. Kids these days, I swear, he deserved that."

John blinked. Had he heard her right?

"What sort of doctor are you anyway? You're what? Nineteen? Can you even _do_ that that young?"

"I'm twenty-one, actually. And yes, I can." John's gaze slipped from her, irritated, and toward the young man being loaded in the ambulance. The doors slammed shut and the ambulance sped off. Hopefully the thief would be alright. He would survive if he got care in time.

Where would ambulance go?

Saint Barts, probably. That was the nearest hospital. Maybe he would drop by later...

"The world is going to crap. I'm tellin' ya. Kid doctors. Kid thieves. What's your name?"

"John. John Watson."

"See, John? Soon we're gonna have some kid running the country, you watch. " The woman crossed her arms, wrinkling her nose, and her gaze wandered down to John's bloody clothes. "What a mess." Like that was really the tragedy here.

John frowned, eyes dark. Curtling anger rolled in his stomach and up his throat. _How miserable it must be to be you._ "Yes," he whispered, his words like daggers. "Almost dying isn't a tidy affair. But don't worry, he's only a thief _._ "

He left her on the curb, mouth open in indignation.

Some people could be so ruddy blind.

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

Sherlock arrived at the coffee shop promptly, unsuccessfully quelling his nerves. He wasn't treating this like a case. It would be so much easier if this _was_ a case. Just another puzzle. Instead, he had to constantly restrain unwanted attacks of sentiment. The soothing sound of French murmured around him, and Sherlock let out a breath. The shop smelled like fresh coffee and pastries and…

Where was the man? Reggie, wasn't it?

His eyes darted around the room, searching for a match. That man? No. Has a teenage daughter. That one? No, works in the medical field.

Those two?

Highly likely.

Two people, a man and a woman, sat in the corner of the room at a table with three chairs. They moved as one, talking without saying much verbally. It was unique, unlike anything Sherlock had seen before. Were they counterbalances? Maybe. The woman was thin, light like a bird, wearing flowing, colorful clothing and no makeup. Her bracelets jangled on her wrists and her black, curly hair was restrained by a black headband.

The man beside her glanced around the room every few seconds. He had intelligent green eyes, and red hair, and the stance of a military man.

Bingo.

After a moment, the man's gaze met Sherlock's. He stood and waved him over with a smile. Shaking away his hesitancy, Sherlock walked around the murmuring tables.

Reggie greeted him with another smile when he neared. Sherlock noted his accent once more. "Mr. Holmes, I'm guessing?"

"Call me Sherlock." Sherlock nodded. "And you're Reggie _,_ yes?"

"Yup." They sat down and the dark-haired woman gave a shy little wave. _Both have rings: married._

"Hi," she said, "Reggie told me all about John. _I_ told him there was no way he'd leave me behind to meet you." Her smile was kind. Open. The desire to ask what she'd heard about John was almost a physical ache. Sherlock had to bite his tongue. That would be sentimental. He wasn't sentimental.

"I'm assuming you're Addie," Sherlock said instead, "His wife?" He nodded toward Reggie.

"Right you are. How'd you know?"

"Cause he's smart, Addie." Reggie interrupted with a good-natured eye roll. Sherlock cocked his head in surprise, and Reggie shrugged. "John's smart. It follows you would be too. Also... John acquired seventeen languages spontaneously. Which was interesting, to say the least. It was from you, I'm assuming. Dumb people don't know that much."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose at the roundabout compliment. He didn't receive many. His fingers laced together in his lap. "I do know several languages. They're all sort of the same once you learn two or three. You're saying he understood them because of me?"

"You don't just wake up knowing something you've never learned for no reason. He used to talk with all the nurses _in French._ He didn't even know the difference. Totally freaked us out when we tested it." Reggie smirked ruefully.

 _Fascinating_.

 _Does that mean John has the capacity for deductions? It explains how I knew how to fix that woman's wound. Knowledge exchange goes both ways. Could be useful._

"Yes…" Sherlock sat back and pursed his lips, aware that the couple were watching him with an uncomfortable amount of interest.

Time to change the subject.

"So, you brought the photo?"

Reggie nodded. "Yes. Yes, I did." He took it out and laid it before Sherlock on the wooden table. The photo was folded and faded, obviously taken by a low quality camera. Several men were gathered together under a makeshift tarp tent playing cards. The light was bright and foreign. Some of the men were shirtless and others were in full green and grey dappled uniforms. A blond man sat back against a cardboard box, ankles crossed in front of him, with a sad sort of smile on his lips. His head was turned down and away, darkened by the tarp's shadow but recognizable. He wasn't a part of the card game. Just watching.

"That's him." Reggie pointed at the man. John Watson. Sherlock's stomach did that funny flip-thing once more. He pursed his lips as Reggie scooted his chair closer to the table. "I know it's not very clear but it's the best I've got."

Leaning forward, Sherlock memorized the man in an instant. He ran a thoughtful finger over the picture and took it up. "Can I take this with me?"

Reggie nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely."

It wasn't much, but it was another piece in this frustrating chase. One piece at a time. He needed to be patient. Patient like Mycroft. But Sherlock wasn't patient. Would he be able to recognize John if he was him in the street based on this picture? Maybe? He wasn't sure.

Sighing tiredly Sherlock stood, picture in hand. He didn't want to take his hands off it. Lest it disappear.

That was ridiculous. _Don't be clingy._

He wanted to ask about John. Far more than he ought.

Reggie stood, copying Sherlock, and stuck out his hand. It was warm and strong when Sherlock shook it. Sherlock was about to deny the questions he wished to ask, when Reggie spoke, as if he already knew what was on his mind.

Maybe he did. How well did he know John, again?

"A word of advice. If you want to find John, look for danger. He'll end up in the middle of it at some point or another." Reggie rolled his eyes. "He begs for adrenaline. Doesn't know it, but it's true."

Sherlock blinked, tasting the words carefully, and adding this information to John's room in his mind palace.

 _Blonde._

 _Twenty-one years._

 _A soldier._

 _A doctor._

 _Injured._

 _British._

 _Lives in London._

 _Friends with Reggie._

… _Looks for danger._

 _More like, craves it._

"I can relate" Sherlock murmured, smirking. If there was anything he loved, it was the thrill of the chase. The blood pumping through his veins. London air in his lungs. Feeling alive close to the edge.

He was so near to finding John, but so far. The chances of locating the man were less slim than before but skinny all the same.

Reggie smirked and took his wife's hand as she stood. "Go get 'em, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

AN: AHHH! I'm getting excited! Please leave a review!


	9. Chapter 9

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

 _The owner of the purse has had her property returned and plans on pressing charges…_

Curious, John grabbed the remote and turned up the sound. He was sitting in his pyjamas, a bowl of cereal in front of him. He had nothing else to do. It was early in the morning and he couldn't sleep anymore, his body clock was tuned to waking far earlier than he would have liked.

 _Meanwhile, the thief known as Raz is recovering remarkably well after being hit by a truck while escaping with the purse. He and the doctors agree that his survival is due to the quick thinking of a young doctor who happened to be on scene…_

The bowl of cereal dropped from his fingers, and John jerked back from the spilt milk. "Dang it," he muttered.

Moving closer to the TV, John stared intently at the face of the young man he'd saved. He had a bandage on his shoulder and leg, a cast on his arm, but he was alive. How old was he again? Seventeen? Eighteen?

Could the boy be sent to jail for something like this?

Probably not usually. But given the horrible demeanor of the woman he stole from, John guessed she would do everything in her power to make that a reality.

Community service was probably more likely.

"Raz," John murmured quietly, hand supporting his chin. "Odd name. What's with all the strange names lately?"

Like Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes. Why did his thoughts _always_ go that direction? Unless he was able to get some more information...

No. Don't think about it.

Pushing the thought away, John focused on the TV screen, on the young, drawn face of the thief. John had nothing of consequence to do today. Or tomorow. Or ever, really.

He _needed_ to do something.

 _Anything_. The empty walls of this tiny apartment were squeezing the life out of him.

 _I'll go see him._

The thought was like a physical shock. John sat back, liking the idea more and more by the moment. He smiled wearily. He'd just show up, ask the kid how he was doing; if he had any family. Ruddy unlucky, stealing a purse from such a pain in the bottom (okay, maybe he wouldn't say that). He shouldn't really care. Raz was a stranger.

John wanted to go anyway. Curiosity is a strange thing.

As is boredom.

Standing up, he stretched and grabbed his cane, which he'd found lying in the gutter after the events of the previous day. He'd picked it up grudgingly.

After that dreaded meeting John had scheduled today with his psychiatrist, he'd drop by Barts.

Better than staring at these blank walls all day.

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

Sherlock was in a taxi, speeding into London when it happened. He'd had his eyes closed for a long time, longer than he knew, exploring the part of his mind palace that had become distinctly _John's._

If there was anything he somehow knew subconsciously about John, Sherlock figured it would be in here somewhere.

He needed _more._ More data. Less variables. The picture wasn't enough information. It was too blurry. John's face too shadowed. He was grateful for it, but it wasn't going to be much help practically.

So here he was, eyes closed, somewhere in a bare hall he hadn't explored, ignoring the bumpy road beneath him. The walls were blank and his footsteps echoed in the empty space. _There's nothing here_ , he thought to himself.

Go to John's room.

And there he was. In the attic, in front of the web of information tacked to the wall. It was similar to the one he had at Bakers Street, but this map was much more detailed, filled with information he wasn't sure how to put on paper.

There were inclinations and hunches and changes in Sherlock's thinking that hadn't come from himself. There were things he _just knew_. Like the fact that John hated the color brown and though of certain neutral things as having a personality. Things like months of the year or days of the week or numbers.

February, for example, was a lilac, aged beauty who wore too much perfume.

July was a haughty and loud man with a smile that was too bright.

The number 2 sucked her thumb and wore a too-too and was mothered by number 9.

Wednesday was forest-like green and sarcastic.

Sherlock knew for certain that such thoughts did not come from his own mind because he would never think, and never _had_ thought in such a way. Months, numbers, days of the week, were simply lists. Not people. They didn't have colors. It was all John. John's unique mind.

Sherlock imagined he was only was aware of all of these 'inclinations' because he automatically filed them all here. If he hadn't taken the time, they would have passed him by unaware.

How did he know all of this? No idea. That's why it didn't get to exist on the physical wall. All of this was so illogical it was almost laughable.

It was amid this thought that Sherlock spotted the hole in panelling. He squinted at it, pulling aside a sheet of paper to look better.

Not a hole. A _peephole_. Like there is on a front door.

Except there was no door here.

Did he put this here?

Sherlock couldn't remember. That… probably was not good.

A peephole put together by his subconscious.

Maybe nothing.

Probably _not_ nothing.

Sherlock leaned forward and looked inside.

Most definitely something. His breath evaporated and suddenly the room disappeared, to be replaced by something else entirely.

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

He shouldn't feel nervous. There was no need.

John shuffled down the sidewalk, passing a red phone box on his left. A small note card was taped to the outside of the glass. Just one more miracle - W

John passed it but then he paused. What had the writer of such words meant? It was not the typical sort of graffiti one might see. And on a phone box too. One more miracle? He turned back to look at the box.

But there was no note, just the glass squares lined by the red of the metal box. The phone within hung off its hook. Frowning, John shook his head and continued. It must have blown away. It hardly mattered anyhow.

Entering through a small side door he had used when he was in school, John slipped into the halls and approached the front desk, entirely evading the small crowd of reporters camped outside. They were still talking about the thief, no doubt.

John approached the front desk. A dark haired man at the computer smelled like cinnamon. He smiled a large, cat-like grin at the sight of John. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, actually. I am a friend of William Wiggins. I'm here to see him?"

The receptionist rolled his eyes. "Everyone is his friend lately. Easy fame, that's what it is. They say crime doesn't pay but..." The man shrugged.

John cocked his head and sighed inwardly. Of course. They wouldn't just let anyone and everyone waltz into his room. He nodded slowly. "Alright. So you can't let me in?"

The receptionist chewed his lip, he had quick, intelligent eyes. He glanced down the hall towards the crowd of reporters. "Well… since you asked so nicely, I'll see what I can do. Are you a student here?"

John blinked. "I was. How did you know?

"You entered through the side. Only students do that."

"Oh. I am a doctor now, if that's any help." Well, mostly a doctor.

The man nodded a few times, not surprised, one hand on his hip, the other's thumb brushing his lips. "You're young for a doctor. Makes sense, though" There was a long pause, where John wasn't sure what to make of that. Then the man leaned forward and lowered his voice. Instinctively, John did as well. "Room number 023, bottom floor," His breath was cinnamon as well. "Don't breath a word to those blood suckers over there." His eyes flicked to the reporters and back.

John nodded. Drumming his fingers, he pulled back from the odd man. He knew exactly where the room was. "Thanks, I owe you."

The receptionist grinned. "No, I owe you."

But John was already around the corner.

His mind went into autopilot almost immediately. He knew these halls like the back of his hand. As he walked down the sanitary, stone floored hall, the walls painted a soft off-white, a memory dislodged itself.

 _"Now, John. We're all so disappointed"_

 _It was dark and the exit sign cast a red light over their faces. John did not know any of the boys personally. His heart thumped in his throat. This was a little-used hallway. No patients were lodged here. He stopped suddenly. "Look, I was just trying to-"_

 _"So this is how you get good grades? Sneaking around at night. Kinda suspicious, right?"_

 _"I was just going to check-"_

 _"Aw, shut up, you little creep. Give it."_

 _John blinked. "I- I don't know what you're talking about."_

 _"So now he's an idiot. We know you're cheating on the exam. No one does that good."_

 _John wasn't cheating. A burning fury boiled his stomach. "Leave me alone."_

 _One of the boys, John didn't know which, they were all a large, red, glowing mass, stepped forward and bent down so that his eyes met John's. "Either you give us the answers or we rat you out, understand?"_

 _John clenched his fists. "I don't have the answers." What horrid creatures... training in the art of fixing and breaking people while they did it._

 _"Then get them. Or we turn you in."_

 _A quick sequence of events trailed behind John's eyes, and after a moment, he calculatedly gave into his fury._

 _John's curled fist connected with the jaw of the young man, not hard enough to bruise but enough to make the man step back in surprize. The man was frozen in shock for an instant, but then he smiled a twisted bit of lips and shook his head disapprovingly. "Wrong choice, Johnny."_

 _The next few minutes were a tangle of limbs and silent thrusts and thumps against the wall. Soon John was against the wall as well, on the ground. His nose was bleeding and his eye was already swelling shut. It would make a beautiful bruise._

 _The young man raised his foot to kick him, but stopped at a small sound._

 _John chuckled. He smirked up at his attackers, blonde bangs hanging in his eyes._

 _"What the heck is he laughing at?"_

 _The largest boy grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hefted him to his feet. "You think this is funny, kid?"_

 _John said nothing. He just kept smiling._

 _Confused, the boys backed off. "Freak," one of them muttered. They gave him a final kick and then marched hautily down the hall._

 _"Idiots," John whispered in reply, slumping back to the ground._

 _The next morning, someone had reported that Mr. John Watson was cheating. He was called to the office sporting a black eye and several bruises beneath a sweater._

 _The receptionist was so startled, she said nothing for several seconds. "What happened?"_

 _"Someone tried to make me give them answers to a test." John said cheerily. "I didn't have them." John's bruises, easily proven to not be self-inflicted, were his credentials._

 _If they had resisted his provocation and refrained from hitting him, there wouldn't have been proof of their confrontation._

 _Idiots._

John smirked, but the memory lacked the shiver of pleasure it used to have. He had been such a manipulative teenager…

However, in that case, it had worked out in his favor.

John reached the room. Looking up at the numbers, John paused. What was he to do? Just waltz in there?

However, his choice was made for him. The door opened to reveal a grim looking man with pepper and salt hair. He gave John cursory glance. "He's not supposed to have visitors." He lowered his voice, looking tired. "And to be honest, mate, he's a pain in the arse. I doubt whatever you're looking to get out of him is worth the verbal abuse."

John squinted at him and then nodded slowly. "You're interviewing him?"

The man gave non-committing shrug. "Police, actually. He's going to need a lawyer. That woman is a vixen. She's determined to jail him." So he'd been right. The woman who he tried to steal from would press charges.

"Right," John said. "Well, thanks for the warning. I really just wanted to see if he was alright."

The man nodded. "He is." He did not move from his spot in front of the door. Instead he frowned and looked John up and down for a moment. "Have I met you before?"

"Ah, I think not."

"Hmm. Are you sure? You remind me of someone but…" The man bit his lip, thinking. Finally, he shrugged. "I'll think of it eventually."

John was on the verge of letting out a nervous laugh and turning away. After all, there was no reason to keep pushing this. He didn't even know the guy.

But as he stood there, John had the distinct feeling that coming here was important. Very important.

"Who the heck are you talking to?" A voice called out from inside, breaking the silent spell. Except, his word choice was not as polite as that.

The officer rolled his eyes. "Just a bloke," he called back.

"Who though? Is it that bloody detective?"

Now, the officer swung around and walked back in a bit. The room was beige, John noted as he followed him quietly. " I've told you before, kid." The officer grunted. "He doesn't work cases like this. You're not a mystery." He pointed at John without looking back. "You stay out there."

John rolled his eyes and fell a step in reverse.

The kid, he really was very young looking in person, gave an irritated snort. He had an unhealthy, starved look with mousy hair and red rimmed eyes. There was a wiry toughness beneath his skin that came from rough living. William glanced at John. His gaze flew past him like he was a plant in the corner, before returning sharply. Blinking, he focused, his mouth opening in recognition. "Hey, aren't you-?"

John shook his head. Just barely.

The boy pulled back his words. Quick, that one, John thought. Silence hung awkwardly while the officer looked back and forth between them. He finally settled on the thief. "You know this man?"

"I am aware of his existence," the boy replied, sticking his bottom lip out stubbornly. "Standin' in front of me, see?"

It looked like it was taking a good deal of restraint on the officer's part to keep from throttling the kid. He stared him down for a few seconds before sighing, apparently giving up. "We're leaving, Ramon," he grunted. He caught John's eye and gestured toward the door.

"Don't call me that!" the kid shouted as they left. "My name is Raz!"

"Bye, Ramon!" The officer exited the room.

John hesitated behind him. He glanced back at Raz and smiled. "Glad to see you're alive."

"Yes, sir," Raz replied with far more decency than he'd shown the officer, bobbing his head up and down. Suddenly he smirked. "You in trouble with them cops, ey?"

"Just don't like attention."

Raz pursed his lips at this, his eyes zipping up and down John. John got the feeling that he was being dissected. Finally the kid seemed satisfied with whatever he found.

"Try not to get yourself killed again," John said spontaneously. "I wouldn't want all my work going to waste."

Raz laughed.

And John walked out of the room.

The officer watched him in the hallway. He had a strange light in his eyes. "What's your name?" he asked curiously.

"John Watson. Yours?"

"Greg Lestrade." John nodded and moved past the man. He needed to get home. Maybe order some takeout…

"I won't tell anyone it was you," Lestrade said. John paused. Turned.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

With that, he left the officer standing there.

 ** _AN: Please leave a review:))_**


	10. Chapter 10

John wandered. He took the long way back toward the door, peering into old laboratories he had once been a student in. Idly, he remembered the indecency of having to use a stool to reach the materials on the top shelves. John smirked, and hearing footsteps behind him, pulled back from the tinted window.

Then it happened.

A feeling intense enough to have been either hot or cold at once shivered from his head down to his toes. His vision eclipsed.

John was being drawn through a very narrow tube, and suddenly he wasn't in the hospital.

The car jostled him up and down. John's breath quickened but he found he could not move. Just an observer. The driver did not appear to notice anything unusual. Heart hammering, John looked down at his lap.

His hands were… not his hands. Oh gods, I've gone mad. John was holding a faded picture he recognized. Afghanistan? Suddenly the hands groped for his pocket and withdrew a pen. It wrote furiously.

Sherlock Holmes.

And John's vision blackened again.

He stumbled and fell against the wall. Sherlock Holmes. That was Sherlock Holmes. _I was seeing through bloody Sherlock Holmes…_

He did not realize he was muttering out loud until he heard a voice and felt hands on his shoulders. "What about him? Sir?"

Suddenly nauseous, John gulped and took in pieces the young woman before him. Lab coat. Lipstick. Brown ponytail. Pretty eyes.

"Sir? Sir, what's wrong?"

John straightened, realizing he was shaking. What on earth just happened? "I'm fine. I'm fine." Suddenly, her earlier words registered. He started visibly, his hand on the wall supporting him. It was John's hand once more. "You know Sherlock?"

Sherlock Holmes. Fanciful name…

The woman nodded, confused. "Yes, he comes down here sometimes for… um, things."

Hardly realizing what he was doing, John gripped her shoulders with both hands. This was impossible! Ridiculous. An opportunity not to be wasted. "Where is he? Do you know where he is?"

The woman's lip trembled and John hastily released her, apologizing. He must sound and look like a maniac "It's just… I've been looking for him."

The woman gulped. "Um. He's- he's in France. On a case."

"A case?"

"He's a detective."

"Oh." A detective. Sherlock was a detective, of all things.

"I- I don't have his number but if you go to his address, the landlady might."

An address. John stared at the girl before him, unbelieving. This information… it was like being casually handed a suitcase of gold. She could not be aware how much it meant to John.

Heck, he didn't even realize he wanted it this bad. Not until right now. "What's his address?"

The woman reached for his hand and confused, he gave it. Quickly, the woman scrawled in neat, curly lettering, a short address.

John stared at it. "Thank you," he said softly.

"Uh, huh" she replied. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Never better," John mumbled. "Seriously," he added when she gave him an incredulous look. "I'll just drink some water." He stepped away from her and toward what he thought was the exit. He waved as he left her standing there, concerned and a bit confused. "Thanks again, ah..."

"It's Molly. And, yeah. Good luck with him."

John was already gone.

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

That was… Well. Sherlock did not exactly have a word for it. He glanced out the window and saw that he was entering London. The cabbie hadn't noticed anything unusual, apparently. Idiot creature.

What had just happened?

He'd fallen through the peephole, at least, that was what it felt like, and suddenly was standing in a hospital, unable to move.

But he could still feel himself back in the cab.

 _A hospital, but which hospital?_ All he could see was a blank white wall. It had smelled like a hospital, but that was all he had to go by. He was in a hospital.

No. _He_ wasn't.

John was.

Sherlock could see the man's hands. He had callouses in all the right places for a soldier. He wore a sweater. _Seriously_? It took but an instant for Sherlock to take advantage of the situation. He could still feel his hands in the cab. He felt in his pocket, pulled what he hoped was a pen out and wrote his name hastily. Hopefully, if John was not a complete idiot, (which of course he would not be considering their connection) John would connect the dots as well.

And then, all at once, Sherlock was back in the cab, breathing heavily. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he bent double to keep his stomach. The cabbie still took no notice.

Where had John been? A hospital. Why?

?

Sherlock growled in frustration. Hopefully, John got more information than Sherlock had. For a moment, Sherlock considered finding the peephole again, but his stomach did a gymnast worthy flip, and he tossed the idea. That had been highly irregular. Now that he thought about it, Sherlock had never heard of such a thing happening between counterbalances.

Perhaps it was because of his diligent fact saving. Or...

Oh, what was he saying, he had no idea.

 _Hate that._

No closer than he was before, Sherlock scowled out the window. The sky was threatening rain. In a few minutes, he'd arrive at home. He'd drop of his baggage, ignore Mrs. Hudson, and be off to ruin his dignity. Sherlock would demand Mycroft's assistance.

No other choice. Mycroft had resources Sherlock did not. The picture would be better used in his hands.

All the same, Sherlock was reluctant to give it up. He shifted uncomfortably and crossed his arms, irritated. The cab coasted to a stop in front of Baker street.

So bloody close.

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

John didn't have money for a cab. Not that it mattered much. He stumbled onto the street, feeling empty headed but oddly hungry. His cane clinking at his side, John walked to the nearest entrance to the subway system, bought himself a ticket from a purple-haired ticketer, and shouldered his way past some delinquents who looked like they were born with spray cans in their hands. They grinned at him and a smiling teen cheerily flipped him off.

Highly irritated, John ignored them and entered the subway. It smelled vaguely of sweat and bleach in here. Never liked the Tube really, although, it had been improved greatly over the last few years...

Reaching his destination, John exited.

The next few minutes were a series of snippets as he soldiered toward the address. A spark of excitement filled him. _I'm actually getting somewhere_ , he thought. He had information to find Sherlock. Hopefully. John glanced at his hand repeatedly, as if afraid it would disappear.

221B Bakers Street.

John consulted a few people on the sidewalk. "Bakers Street?"

They pointed the right direction.

Here it was.

John walked past a sandwich shop, his stomach growling traitorously, and found himself in front of an blue door. A brief memory floated idly to the surface. _Blue door_. Hadn't he dreamed about that?

Now that he was here, John hesitated. What if he was actually there? What if he opened the door? What would John do then?

Run like a rabbit, that's what, John admitted ruefully. It sort of felt like meeting someone for the first time having only known them on the internet. But… this was quite a lot different. _Hey, so I'm the guy who's been sharing your headspace for the last few months. Wanna get some lunch?_ John's stomach flipped, this time from nerves. That was not going to play out well.

Suddenly, the door opened and the door knocker bounced loudly on the wood. Startled, John stumbled back a step and nearly fell. He caught himself and looked up again. An old woman who could have come out of a handbook on how to 'grandmother', stood in the door with a bright smile. "Hello, I saw you waiting. Are you here for Sherlock? Not taking clients, I'm afraid." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "He's got some sort of investigation goin' on. Doesn't like to be disturbed with other things."

"I…" John wasn't sure what to say. He opted for the easiest option. "Are you the landlady?"

"Yes, sir, I am. You can call me Mrs. Hudson." Her hand rested on a fragile looking hip. "Look at me, making you stand out here, nearly raining and all. Would you come in? Sherlock isn't here but I can tell him you were by if you like."

"Um-"

"I'll make you some tea." She scuttled back inside, leaving the door open. Would be rude to leave. Cautiously, John walked up the steps and followed the woman into the house. There was a stairway going upwards on the left, and a hallway to a kitchen on the right. John stared up the stairs. Sherlock lived up there. He was certain.

Peering into the kitchen, John smiled at Mrs. Hudson. "Do you mind if I pop up there? Jus' to look around. I'm… well, honestly, I'm curious. Heard about him."

Mrs. Hudson gave him a careful look and then nodded. "Well, I don't see why not. Come on, until the tea hollers." She bustled past him, smelling like lavender perfume, and walked up the stairs. John followed her, and she spoke without any particular attention.

"I've got a room up here. Never can get anyone to rent, Sherlock being… well, how he is. But he's a good boy, really. Now, don't take notice of the mess. I'm sure he's got something horrid cooking in the refrigerator of his. I try not to look..."

John wasn't sure what to make of that.

They reached the top of the stairs and Mrs. Hudson ushered him into the room. It was indeed messy, in a lived-in sort of way; cluttered with books and… was that chemistry equipment? Dust reigned on the mantelpiece, along with a skull. Papers were strewn about along with several newspapers and newspaper clippings.

John felt oddly hollow. He found he was not surprised in the least by the living conditions. This felt like a place Sherlock would spend time, however it was that he knew.

Mrs. Hudson kept up a running commentary that John did not paid the least bit attention to. He only looked up when she fell silent, realizing she asked him a question. "Sorry. What did you say?"

"I said, you wouldn't like to see the upper room, would you?" She looked faintly hopeful. Probably hoping he would rent.

John shrugged and followed her back into the hall, and up another set of stairs. This room was obviously not in use. There was a single bed frame and a few boxes, and…

"Oh, goodness," Mrs. Hudson muttered apologetically. "I do tell him to leave the room alone. He calls it his 'attic'." On the far wall, almost hidden from view, was a tangle of papers and red string. Tacked messily across the wallpaper were numerous lists, seemingly handwritten. Some had several entries, some just one. It was odd. Things like.

 _Tired. Long walks._

 _Tea?_

 _Iraq?_

 _Fear._

 _Lonely._

 _Smart probably._

 _Hungry. All the time._

 _Nightmares._

There were lists of names also, among some pages from some websites John did not recognize. John leaned closer, forgetting all about Mrs. Hudson. The lists of names caught his eye.

John.

They all were named John. Soldiers named John.

Blood leaving his face, John stepped back unsteadily. "He's looking…"

"What was that dear? I said before, he's on a case. This mess is to do with it, I'm sure." She shook her head with a small smile. "Funny man, he is."

John thought he might be made of stone. He's looking. _For me._ Sherlock wanted to find him. A grin overcame him, and he looked closer.

There is was. Circled in red.

 _John Watson_.

Sherlock had his name. He figured it out. Somehow.

Genius.

"That's why he's in France," John murmured thoughtfully. He ran his fingers down the papers. Sherlock traced him to his hospital in France. Was that how he got the photograph?

Reggie. That was Reggie's picture, John suddenly recalled. Sherlock must have found him somehow…

A detective worth his ruddy salt.

"He's not in France," he heard Mrs. Hudson say.

Blinking out of his trance, John frowned. "He's not?"

"No. Just came back. Dashed off again, like usual." She sighed, and John stared at her.

"Where is he now?" he croaked.

Mrs. Hudson shrugged. The teapot shrilled beneath them, and Mrs. Hudson made for it. "He didn't bother telling me, sweet. Although, if I had to guess, he is probably at the police station pestering them again. That's usual..."

John followed her down the stairs and stood awkwardly by the door. "Thank you for showing me around."

"No trouble, darling. If you know someone who'd like to rent that room, send them my way." She handed him tea in a Styrofoam cup and a cookie in a plastic bag.

John opened his mouth in gracious protest but she beat him to it.

"I feel you've got somewhere to be. Don't feel like you've got to stay. And don't starve yourself like _he_ does." Mrs. Hudson's eyes twinkled. "You remind me of him a bit. That… urgency."

John gulped. "Doesn't surprise me." He took a sip of the tea. Mint. Delicious. "Well," he smiled. "I'll be off, I suppose." He opened the door, and Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"I'll tell him you've been around. What was your name?"

John acknowledged this with a raised hand from the sidewalk. "John Watson. And... thanks."

"My pleasure."

* * *

AN: sorry for the long wait for this chapter :) please review. I'm thinking the meeting is going to happen any chapter now! It gives me a malicious sort of pleasure to make you anticipate it forever (cue evil laugh)


	11. Chapter 11

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

"Well, that's rubbish. Surely you can do better, Sherlock."

Sherlock bristled. "Are you saying you can't work with it?"

Mycroft Holmes squinted skeptically at the photograph in his manicured hands. "I'm not saying that. I suppose it will have to do." He sighed in a long-suffering sort of way. They were standing in his office within a rather large mansion that Mycroft called home. The sun fell drearily outside, and grayish stripes of light fell across their faces. "I'll send it to my people."

"Your ' _people'_ ," Sherlock mimicked, rolling his eyes. "Hopefully, they are as good as you say they are."

"They are far more efficient than your homeless network. They have heads on their shoulders."

Sherlock shrugged. "You underestimate them, which of course, is a part of their usefulness."

Mycroft glared but refrained from speaking because, at that moment, Sherlock's phone buzzed. Sherlock answered it without breaking his glare.

"Sherlock speaking. Who is this?"

"Mrs. Hudson, dear."

Sherlock frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm busy." He was about to hang up.

"Someone was here to see you," she said quickly.

Sherlock paused. He met Mycroft's questioning gaze. "Who?"

"A nice bloke with a cane. Wanted a look around the place. Raced out when I told him you were back in town."

"Fine. What was his name?" Sherlock replied tersely.

"John Watson, he said."

The phone fell from Sherlock's ear. He hung up and his mind fizzed. "John found Bakers Street," Sherlock murmured to Mycroft, who raised an eyebrow. The detective bit his lip. How on earth did the man manage that? _And how on earth did I miss him_? Fresh irritation at himself bubbled in his chest. "I have to go. Work on the picture." Mycroft rolled his eyes but waved him away.

Sherlock was down the corridor and almost to the front door when his phone buzzed again. He answered it with a snap. "What?"

"Sherlock? I just heard you're back. We need you. There's been another suicide."

Sherlock stopped, surprised. His feet squeaked on the polished tile. "What's different about this one? You avoided calling me for the others."

"Well." Sherlock heard a car door slam through the phone. "You know how they never leave a note?"

"Yes."

"This one did."

For a long moment, Sherlock said nothing. A mystery. A fresh murder. They needed his help.

It would only take a few hours at the most. John couldn't get far in a few hours. He'd do this thing and then be back in a moment. Besides, Mycroft needed time to work with the photograph anyhow. He chewed his lip in irritation. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Address?"

Lestrade told him, and Sherlock threw himself into a cabbie. The sun was almost gone now. "Right. Make sure Anderson doesn't mess anything up before I get there."

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

That was, by far, the best cookie John had tasted since he left for Afghanistan two years ago. Or maybe even before that... Mrs. Hudson certainly knew what she was doing in the kitchen.

Wiping away the crumbs from his shirt, John walked as fast as he could up the large marble staircase, his cane still clicking at his side. His leg was aching from so much walking but John ignored it. He glanced up at the sign on the side of the building. Scotland Yard. Surely he would be here.

Shouldering through the glass revolving doors, John let a few officers pass him before entering the building. He glanced around for a receptionist of some sort but instead met eyes with a familiar face. It was the officer from the hospital. Although, now that he thought about it, John doubted his was just an officer, given the respectful looks in his direction. DI, John guessed. Not to mention, he was not in a uniform. What was his name Les... something?

"John?" the man pushed toward him. "Mr. Watson? For what do I owe the pleasure... again?"

Lestrade. That was it.

"I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes. Do you know him?"

Lestrade nodded matter of factly like this wasn't a miracle. "Yeah. He's in France."

John shook his head. "I was just at his flat. The landlady said he is back. Said he might be down here? I'm… I need to find him."

Lestrade nodded. "I haven't seen him if he is back, but-"

The room suddenly swelled with emotion. People were scrambling to their feet. "Oi!" Lestrade shouted. "Order, folks! What's going on?"

A pretty, dark-skinned woman with a perpetual scowl approached them. "Another suicide. Gotta go down there."

Lestrade cursed under his breath. "Same as the others?"

The woman hesitated. "No. She left a message, they say."

There was a weighted pause...

And Lestrade took out his phone. The woman wrinkled her nose, but Lestrade merely glared at her. "Donovan, I'm going to call him. I should have done so months ago."

"But-"

"No buts. Let's go." He seemed to remember that John was next to him. "Sorry about this, mate." This time, it was John left behind. The officers surged toward the doors, and John caught Lestrade's words as he spoke into the phone. _Sherlock? I just heard you're back_.

John froze.

He was so close. _So close._ Of course! Sherlock was a detective. Sherlock was the detective they were talking about, the one that Donovan woman held in such disdain.

Sherlock would be at the crime scene.

John did not have to think about it. He acted.

Moving quietly but quickly, John followed the officers out the doors and came to curb. So much for saving money. He hailed a cab and slid in awkwardly, his cane irritatingly banging against his shins. "Follow those officers," John said to the cabbie, hoping he wouldn't have scruples.

The man looked back at him with beady eyes that soon filled with curiosity. "Cost you double."

"Fine. Don't act suspicious. I just want to know where they're going."

Without another word, the man buckled after the officers. Thank God for sketchy cab drivers.

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

By the time Sherlock arrived at the old house, the police department had converged over the entire property. Night was reigning free and bright sirens stung Sherlock's eyes as he approached.

Here we go, he thought, seeing Donovan guarding the caution tape. She knew he was coming, of course. Probably waited there on purpose. Pathetic. Some people just couldn't handle the reality that there was someone better than them at their job (no use for false modesty). Steeling himself, Sherlock stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of his coat and pasted on an obviously fake smile.

"Sally," he said cheerily.

She did not meet his eyes, instead looking somewhere just above his head. She called back over her shoulder. "Freak's here!"

Typical.

He rolled his eyes "Are you going to let the 'freak' in or will I have to come around back to enter and do your job?"

Sally's glare was full of spite.

He tutted sarcastically. "They say if you make that face too many times it will stick." He lifted the tape of his own accord and proceeded past her. "Although, that might be an improvement in your case, Donovan."

Straight-backed, he left Donovan a delicate shade of purple.

Once he was inside, he had to deal with Anderson, who was an insolent prat as usual. Sherlock breezed past him and jogged up several flights of spiraling stairs.

Lestrade was the only person who did not look at him with levels of distrust or irritation. Sherlock did not mind their glares. It wasn't their fault they were idiots. But it was nice to see the relief in Lestrade's eyes. "Good. You're here. How was France?"

Sherlock merely grunted in response, moving across the room toward the body, which lay on her face unceremoniously. The wooden floor creaked beneath his feet as he crouched. People were whispering in the background.

"Get them out," he said simply.

Lestrade argued but agreed in the end. Soon it was just him and Lestrade. Sherlock deduced what he could (which was significant, he would add privately). Rache, she wrote. That was her note.

German? No.

Rachel.

Who?

"Her case. See? It left mud splatters on the back of her legs. I'd say it's about this large." He demonstrated with his hands.

Lestrade was silent. "But... Sherlock. There wasn't a case."

That stopped him cold. No case. No case. There was clearly a case. So where did it go? Where could it go?

She was traveling. Alone. Had the case with her.

"Has anyone seen a case?!" Sherlock swung out of the room and shouted down the spiraling staircase. The railing creaked in protest. He got shrugs in response.

Oh, perfect. Absolutely perfect. Sherlock did not realize he was grinning.

"Sherlock. Slow down. What is it?"

Still grinning, Sherlock spun toward Lestrade. "Murder, Lestrade. Serial murders! This is Christmas!" He flew down the stairs, babbling as he ran. "Serial killers are the best. Tricky, but wonderful. Have to wait till they make a mistake. Find Rachel!"

Lestrade was still at the top of the stairs. Didn't he get it yet? "What mistake?" he called.

Oh, for goodness sake. "PINK!"

Sherlock did not give Lestrade another glance. He needed to find the case. Had to find the case. The woman was dressed entirely in pink. The case would be pink. Right? Yes. Of course.

Flying past the other officers, and sort-of-not-really-accidentally running into Anderson, Sherlock sped into the night. "Pink case, anyone?" he continued to call, stooping beneath the caution tape. "Pink suit- ohff" Sherlock's pace finally stuttered when he ran directly into a rather short blonde man. The man stumbled, and Sherlock caught him by the elbow.

"Thanks." The man frowned. "I... Yes. I saw a pink case."

Sherlock, who had already been about to race away, skidded to a stop again. "Really? Where?"

"A dumpster a bit back."

Sherlock grinned. "Of course. Killer realized he has the suitcase. Can't keep it. It's pink. Would draw attention. Especially if the killer is a man, which statistically, it would be." He wasn't really talking to the person in front of him. He had a murder to solve, after all.

"So he drops it off in the dumpster nearby... Are you talking about a murderer?" The blonde man was matter-of-fact, and Sherlock nodded quickly.

He grabbed the man's elbow again and tugged him along. "Show me where."

Sherlock kept running forward and then doubling back to stay with the slower man. Cane. Psychosomatic limp. Irritating. Finally, they entered a small alleyway. The man pointed inside. "I thought I saw it when I walked past. Is it important?"

"Maybe." Sherlock dove inside and peered around the teetering pile of trash in the dumpster. "You're sure you saw it here?"

"Yes. It could have fallen." The man leaned over the side of the dumpster to look, his nose wrinkling at the smell. He pointed. "There. Just there, behind the stroller."

Sherlock did not waste time. It was against his nature. He pushed past the man and climbed into the dumpster without much thought. And there it was. As the man said. A pink suitcase.

* * *

AN: AHHHHHHHHHHH! Guys! HI! Look what I did! I did a thing. Finally! What do you think of our ridiculous boys?


	12. Chapter 12

AN: "lowers a chapter down from a window and scurries back inside"

Did you miss me?

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

The suitcase flew unceremoniously in John's general direction. John caught it with both hands, startled, and the dark haired man popped up from the depths of the dumpster. "Oh, good reflexes." He clambered out, long legged but agile, and took the suitcase back. Quickly setting it on the ground, he unzipped it and riffled through the clothes, toothbrush, and other items. After a moment, he grinned. "Phone. She doesn't have a phone in here. But she wouldn't have left it. No, she even thought to bring floss. You don't remember to bring floss and forget your phone. Especially if she was in the media business. Which she was. So where's the phone…?"

"Could she have dropped it?" John asked, slightly confused. Why was this important?

"Perhaps." The man's eyes glazed over as the thought. He stood to his feet suddenly. "I need to use your phone," he said.

John blinked at him. "Can't you use yours?"

"No."

Frowning, John fished in the pocket of his jacket and brought out his cellphone. The man took it quickly, texted something, and handed John back the phone. John looked at the screen. _What happened last night? I think I blacked out. I'm at _._ It said.

John glanced up and down between the phone and the man. "You blacked out?"

"No," the man muttered, irritated. He zipped up the suitcase and deposited it on John. "Say she just dropped her phone... someone picks it up, the text means nothing. But if the murderer sees it." The man's eyes sparkled, and he threw his hands in the air. "He panics. His victim didn't _die_. If anything, he'd take a look at the address."

The man began jogging hastily out of the alleyway, and John was left with an open mouth. "Genius," he murmured after the man's retreating form. And then, "Wait! Wait a minute." He set off after the man. "You just texted a murderer. With my phone."

"Yes, didn't I make that clear?" He didn't seem to find his actions strange in the least. John stared at him, and then shook his head. He had to walk very fast to keep up with the man. "Where are we going?"

"I'm going to the address obviously. You're... following, I suppose. And you're probably only half an idiot, since you managed to remember the suitcase, so that's fine."

John rolled his eyes. "Glad to have your permission." The man didn't appear to hear him. They jogged in silence for several minutes, twisting and turning between streets. The figure before John never once hesitated. Finally, the man came to a stop, holding up a hand for John to do so as well. They were in an alleyway behind what smelled like an Italian restaurant. John pressed his back against the brick wall, waiting for the man to make a move. "What are we waiting for?"

"Shh."

John frowned. He had the suitcase hanging awkwardly in his hands. John peered over the man's shoulder. There was nothing unusual. A busy street. People walking back, cars zooming. Everything was moving except...

"That was fast," John murmured. The murderer must have been nearby to get here so quickly. Then again, he had a car while John and the man were foot bound.

The man looked back at him in surprize. "The taxi, you see it? Just waiting there. That's our guy."

John nodded. "Right. Obviously." It was pleasurable to see the man wrinkle his nose at the word. He didn't seem used to being told that something was obvious. Breathing in the musty air of the night mixed with the sharp smell of Italy, John looked around the man again. The car eased its way into the flow of traffic. "He's moving."

The man cursed under his breath. "Let's go. Follow me. Leave the suitcase here." John followed all three orders easily and soon they raced along, running as fast as they could.

"Do you know where we're going?"

"Short cut!" the man shouted back, not slowing in the least. "We'll cut him off if we..." Suddenly, he dove to the side and pulled himself over a chainlink fence. John stopped, startled, and then did the same.

Closer and closer they raced, closing in on the car. Finally, they burst out of the alleyways and into the blurs of a busy intersection. Without regard to the cars, the dark coated man raced around them. John was just behind. His heart raced faster than it had since Afghanistan, and he smiled.

"There!" the man shouted. His momentum bowled him into the window of one of the taxi's, and John quickly caught up. The man opened the door, and John heard him speaking in a low voice, and then curse monumentally.

"Apologies," he said loudly. "Wrong car. Welcome to London." He slammed the door shut and backed up a few steps so that he was in line with John, who looked at him with wide eyes.

"What just happened?"

The man was seething with irritation. "Wasn't him. American. Just off the plane." He scowled and stuffed his hands into his pockets. John didn't have time nor the energy to ask him how he knew this. He was breathing too hard to get out more than a few words. Gasping, they caught their breath for just a moment before John saw the man from the taxi pointing a policeman in their direction. He backed away hastily, pulling his companion along with him. "There's-"

"I see them. Let's get the suitcase."

They jogged back to the restaurant, got the case, and then began walking again. John followed without much thought. He was still breathing heavily and grinning. Walking into vaguely familiar street, John stopped for a moment to catch his breath once more and suddenly laughed.

"Welcome to London." He snorted.

The man stopped, turned, and grinned at him. "Was a bit ridiculous, wasn't it?"

John raised an eyebrow. "That was by far the most ridiculous thing I have ever done." He fell back against a wall on the side of the street and stayed there, hands on his knees. The man did the same.

"And you invaded Middle East."

John gave a wheezing sort of laugh. It truly was ridiculous. He hadn't had fun like this... such exhilaration, since Afghanistan. But he could hardly call being shot at, or sewing up wounds 'fun' without getting strange looks. This though? This was worth every stitch piercing his abdomen. After a moment, John's chuckled petered to a stop, and he glanced at his companion curiously. The man had gone eerily quiet. After a moment, John rubbed his eyes. Afghanistan? "How'd you know that, then?" he asked, registering the man's earlier words. "Afghanistan, I mean." Had he told him he was a soldier?

The man seemed perplexed as well. "I suppose it was your cane and..." He frowned, looked John over again, and, all at once, took a step back.

And another.

"Oh," he said softly. Then again: " _Oh_." They were standing in a halo of light cast by a street lamp, and the man paled considerably beneath the radiance.

John cautiously straightened. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." He did not look fine. An irritated glare flashed through his eyes, and he ground his teeth. "Should have been paying attention. Getting relaxed."

John blinked. What? "Is something wrong?"

"No. Nothing." He licked his lips nervously. "Your name," He demanded. "What's your name?"

John cocked his head. "John," he said slowly. "John Watson. But what does that have to do with… with- are you sure you're alright?"

The man looked halfway between running away or collapsing, and John didn't know what he'd do if the man did either.

The man ran a hand through his hair agitatedly instead and paced. "It can't possibly be. I should have... You're- you're... How did you...?" He didn't give John anytime to respond. He met John's eyes. Stopped pacing. "One way to be sure, right?" Glanced at his hands.

John just stared at him, confused. "I don't unders- Ow!" John jumped away suddenly, pain throbbing through his knuckles. The man had rammed John's fist into the wall beside-

Wait.

The man was hardly daring to breathe, eyes wide and focused on John. He shook his hand to rid it of the pain. John stood stalk still, feeling for the first time that he could not trust his eyes.

John's fist hit the wall. Right?

But it was the man's hand that had actually moved.

Like gears in a ticking clock, John's mind made the connections. He had forgotten all about his search for Sherlock in his mad race around London with this stranger.

This stranger who really did not feel like a stranger at all.

This stranger who was looking for a murderer. Like a detective.

This stranger who was taking him to _Bakers street_. They were _standing_ in Bakers street.

Sherlock was a detective at the crime scene.

John screwed his eyes shut and then opened them again, feeling a headache coming on. Looking at the man in a new light, John wasn't sure how he'd missed it. The way he held himself and how he moved. The shadows under his eyes.

Despite that John had never set eyes on him before, it was obvious who he was.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock gave a weary sort of smile. "The one and only."

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

If Mrs. Hudson had not called out into the night at that very moment, Sherlock thought he might have stood there, frozen, forever. He glanced away and then back again. Still there.

Still John.

And it was most definitely him. Even if he hadn't responded to Sherlock's self-inflicted pain, Sherlock would still have recognised him.

Recognition. An odd thing in this case.

For a second, Sherlock was very sure that if he made any sudden movements, John would run away. To be honest, he was on the verge of such a cowardly escape himself. John kept staring at him as if he had sprouted fangs, and Sherlock figured his face probably mirrored that expression. They were both waiting for the other to move; to solidify their relationship in reality when it had for so long only existed inside their minds. _This is impossibly strange._

John finally let out a small, strangled sounding laugh. " _You're_ Sherlock? You?" He laughed again, sounding less fearful this time. "Course it's you."

Sherlock did not have time to respond (thankfully) to that statement (what would he have said anyway?) because a few houses down, a door opened and a rectangle of light flickered across the sidewalk. "Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called from the doorstep of 221B. "Is that you?"

Reluctant to turn his back, Sherlock shouted over his shoulder. "It's me."

"You really ought to come inside! The boys are doing a- a bust."

That brought Sherlock back to reality, glad for the distraction. He turned toward Mrs. Hudson and frowned. " _Again_?" he barked irritably.

He could sense John just behind him. Tense. _Don't run away_ , Sherlock thought desperately. How would he find him again if he dashed off? But Sherlock said nothing of this sort. It would look far too sentimental for his tastes.

"I should go," John said softly. He had a quiet voice, with a bit of raspiness in the back due to a sore throat Sherlock knew he'd been nursing for a few days.

"No," came Sherlock's instant response. Too quick? Maybe.

" _Sher_ lock!" Oh, go away, Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm coming!" He spun back around to face John. "Don't. Leave, that is." He searched for a reason hastily. "You... you found the suitcase. You can vouch for me."

John blinked, confused. "Why would I have to do that?"

Ah, yes. "So that they don't think I'm the murderer, obviously." With deliberation, Sherlock began walking toward his flat. For a moment, there was only silence behind him.

And then the quick footsteps as John hurried to catch up. Sherlock suppressed a smile. "Do they often think that?" John asked as they neared the door. "I mean, think you're the murderer?"

"Yes. Now and again." They were in the rectangle of light now. The blue door hung open, waiting, and Mrs. Hudson gave a relieved smile at the sight of them. "Oh!" she said. "I see Mr. Watson caught up to you, Sherlock."

"Please, call me John."

Inclining her head in acknowledgement, Mrs. Hudson budged out of the doorway. Sherlock swept past her without a word. His chest was still clutching nervously, like a snake around his waist. _Don't think right now._ He had to take care of the idiots in his flat. "Sometimes they think I'm witholding evidence," he said idly to John, who followed close at his heels. The stairs creaked beneath his feet. He skipped the first and the fourth out of habit. "So they do a drug bust to try and find it."

"Do they find it?"

"Course not."

"... Have you had evidence?"

"Absolutely." Sherlock smirked and offered no more, glancing back and seeing that his response had amused John. Good.

It hit him again that this was John. His John.

Quickly, Sherlock entered his flat, pushing away the sentimental and slightly overwhelming thought. He stuffed it in a corner to deal with later.

"Hello," said a nasally voice the moment he stepped inside. Sherlock glowered at him. Anderson. There were about half a dozen officers roaming around the room, not including Lestrade, who had a resigned glaze to his eyes.

Sherlock shifted his glare toward Lestrade now, still feeling John just at his back. Now that he was aware of him, it was impossible to ignore. "Got here quick." he said boredly. "You shouldn't have bothered."

Lestrade looked pained. "Thought it would be better to come here instead of hanging around the crime scene after you left. Not much else we could do without you. Knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid." Sherlock saw the veiled compliment within the statement, and his ire cooled slightly.

"So you stage a drug bust."

"I volunteered," Anderson piped, smirking as he passed. He opened up a microwave in the cluttered kitchen and startled back. "Are those _human_ hearts?"

"An experiment," Sherlock muttered. He turned his attention back to Lestrade, who cast an amused glance at Anderson before refocusing on Sherlock. "Well, as I said, you shouldn't have bothered," Sherlock said. "We only just found the suitcase ourselves."

Lestrade frowned. "We? Oh." He only just noticed John, who shifted awkwardly and held the suitcase up. "Keep running into you, don't I?" Lestrade said with a surprised smile.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You know each other?"

John nodded. "Sort of. Met him this morning at the hospital and then at the station looking for… well, you."

Lestrade nodded. "Glad you caught up to him." Sherlock noticed the questioning light cast his way but ignored Lestrade's curiosity. He obviously wanted to know John's significance. Sherlock didn't just drag around anyone.

But that was a conversation for a time when he wasn't solving someone's murder. For the first time, Sherlock wished it was over already.

"So that's the victim's suitcase?" Anderson said, popping into the room once more.

 _Here it comes,_ Sherlock thought. He suppressed a sigh. "You are like acid reflux, Anderson. Always popping back up at the most inconvenient times." Taking the suitcase from John, Sherlock cleared away a space and set it down on the table.

"And I suppose you just happened to _find_ it laying around?" Anderson's voice dripped with accusation.

"John here- can I call you John?"

John gave him a look. "What else you would you call me?"

"Yes… I suppose that's-"

"You were saying, Sherlock?" Lestrade interrupted.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Right. Anyhow, John noticed it as he drove past. And _yes_ , we found it laying around."

Anderson sniffed. His hair had an oily, slicked look, and Sherlock wondered if he used hair gel or he just ended up that way naturally. "Anyway, who are _you_?" Anderson said to John.

John shifted his weight nervously, shifting the suitcase from hand to hand. "John Watson."

"Yeah, but _who_ are-"

"Should I mention," Sherlock spoke up loudly, snatching up the suitcase and opening it up on the table. Lestrade watched, slightly amused. "neither of us are the murderers."

"I never said-"

"Do shut up now, Anderson. The adults have work to do." Sherlock turned his back, catching a glimpse of the man's outrage. Always nice working with you.

Now. The case. The murder. John.

"So… we found Rachel."

* * *

 _ **AN: I am so sorry it took so long to update and I left you on a horrible cliff hanger and everything! But I'm back now! Please leave review! Thanks for being so patient and reading for so long! See you next week!**_


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